My extended break from posting in this, my most beloved forum, is over. I say that quite happily, as the implication is that some sense of normalcy has been restored in my life and in the lives of my fellow Israelis.
The heartbreak of losing our three precious teens followed by the onset of war surrendered our collective innocence as a people. Pain loomed around every corner, the weight of world admonishment a burden to carry. To be told that not enough of your people are being murdered this time around came as a bucket of salt in the heart of a wound that remains unhealed through generations of anti-Semitic slaughter fests. Perhaps I was tired of complaining. Perhaps I was afraid others would tire of it.
When the rockets stopped raining down on our tiny country, the war still was not over. My family became Israeli this summer, victims of post-traumatic stress that became evident through our reactions to benign car alarms and noises emanating from the mouths of children as they played. Even now, two months later, a noise that hints of the pitch of a siren shocks the rhythm of my heart into a frantic pace.
Just last month my daughter and I took a trip to America to visit our family. When late at night a siren sounded, so closely resembling the one that warns of incoming rockets, I found myself dashing down the hall to where my daughter was sleeping soundly. Thank G-d I was at her bedside when she awoke to the sound where I was able to calm her back to sleep. At the city market another alarm sent her eyes darting and her heart pounding, while family members eased her anxiety, reminding her that this was not the sound of war, just a mere fire door ajar.
The beautiful holidays have come and gone. The food and guests enhanced our table, the vacation days enjoyed by children and adults alike. Now it is back to real life. Normal life. And we are grateful. Normal is as normal should be now, not what normal became this past summer. Is it normal to scan the summer sky for a glimpse of a rocket on the way to the beach? Or to open the windows while air conditioners blast so that we won't miss a siren in the night? Nowadays when I put my son to bed in the room that doubles as a bomb shelter, I don't have to listen for the sound of booms as a signal that it's okay to leave. A kiss and a prayer are all that's required to leave his room these days.
We are back to hiking and socializing. We drive with our windows closed. And though a three-month-old baby was mowed down just four days ago by a Hamas terrorist for the terrible crime of being Jewish, acts of terror have diminished in numbers from the recent summer wartime peak. But it still hurts; the searing leaves a scar that keeps each precious soul with us forever.
Now it is time to return to rejoicing in the life we live in this miraculous land. To marveling over the sight of hundreds of sheep grazing by the road, to chilling by the waters of the Mediterranean, to imbibing in the warmth of the unity of our people. In fact, life is a little sweeter these days. We reach out a bit more despite our busy schedules. We seem to savor life an inch more here, a taste over there. We have experienced the curse and the blessing of uncertainty.
The heartbreak of losing our three precious teens followed by the onset of war surrendered our collective innocence as a people. Pain loomed around every corner, the weight of world admonishment a burden to carry. To be told that not enough of your people are being murdered this time around came as a bucket of salt in the heart of a wound that remains unhealed through generations of anti-Semitic slaughter fests. Perhaps I was tired of complaining. Perhaps I was afraid others would tire of it.
When the rockets stopped raining down on our tiny country, the war still was not over. My family became Israeli this summer, victims of post-traumatic stress that became evident through our reactions to benign car alarms and noises emanating from the mouths of children as they played. Even now, two months later, a noise that hints of the pitch of a siren shocks the rhythm of my heart into a frantic pace.
Just last month my daughter and I took a trip to America to visit our family. When late at night a siren sounded, so closely resembling the one that warns of incoming rockets, I found myself dashing down the hall to where my daughter was sleeping soundly. Thank G-d I was at her bedside when she awoke to the sound where I was able to calm her back to sleep. At the city market another alarm sent her eyes darting and her heart pounding, while family members eased her anxiety, reminding her that this was not the sound of war, just a mere fire door ajar.
The beautiful holidays have come and gone. The food and guests enhanced our table, the vacation days enjoyed by children and adults alike. Now it is back to real life. Normal life. And we are grateful. Normal is as normal should be now, not what normal became this past summer. Is it normal to scan the summer sky for a glimpse of a rocket on the way to the beach? Or to open the windows while air conditioners blast so that we won't miss a siren in the night? Nowadays when I put my son to bed in the room that doubles as a bomb shelter, I don't have to listen for the sound of booms as a signal that it's okay to leave. A kiss and a prayer are all that's required to leave his room these days.
We are back to hiking and socializing. We drive with our windows closed. And though a three-month-old baby was mowed down just four days ago by a Hamas terrorist for the terrible crime of being Jewish, acts of terror have diminished in numbers from the recent summer wartime peak. But it still hurts; the searing leaves a scar that keeps each precious soul with us forever.
Now it is time to return to rejoicing in the life we live in this miraculous land. To marveling over the sight of hundreds of sheep grazing by the road, to chilling by the waters of the Mediterranean, to imbibing in the warmth of the unity of our people. In fact, life is a little sweeter these days. We reach out a bit more despite our busy schedules. We seem to savor life an inch more here, a taste over there. We have experienced the curse and the blessing of uncertainty.
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