Not like Hamas is shooting rockets a dozen or so kilometres from my home...

I couldn't sleep last night. It was a combination of things, really; namely CNN, BBC, Jerusalem Post, and Arutz Sheva. But the overriding reason I just couldn't conscience sleeping was thinking of all those people whose sleep will be disrupted multiple times throughout the night by Code Red alarms. People in Sderot, who haven't slept a decent sleep in years. Now people in Ashkelon, in Ashdod, in Netivot, in Ofakim, and in Be'er Sheva where they're gearing up for missiles.

How can I curl up in my warm, cozy bed thinking of my fellow Jews sleeping in their miklatim (bomb shelters), not knowing if the next rocket to hit will be, G-d forbid, in their home?

What is happening in the world and in Israel defies all logic and reason. That's the good news and the bad news. It's good news because it means that Hashem Himself is behind maneuvering this illogical (to us) logic. The "bad" news is that it hurts. Real bad. To see the news stories that show pathetic children, dripping blood, but not a single image of all the trauma and shock victims of rocket attacks is just searingly, flamingly evil. But there's a halacha (law) that "Eisav sonei es Yaakov" (Esau hates Jacob), and we can grin and bear it so long as we're grounded in the reality that God chose Yaakov as His People and loves us infinitely. I'm crazy about my kids; imagine how much God loves us, His children. That thought helps mitigate even the worst of BBC.

When I lived in the United States and Canada we always were told to daven for Eretz Yisrael and I DID feel bad for "those Jews far-off in Israel". I did. But it just isn't the same when you're up close.

I think on some level we're all feeling Moshiach . It's a scary thing and it's a beautiful thing. The fear is always hovering over our heads and now that fear isn't only a Made in Israel entity. Americans are also feeling it. The economy is scary. The surging anti-semitism is scary. The Madoff scandal is scary. The anti-Israel protests are scary.

The only right thing to do with fear is to act productively on it. Right now I'm trying to divine what exactly that means--for me. Certainly increased tefillah, chessed (acts of lovingkindness), and achdus (Jewish unity) come to mind. But there's also a part of me that feels an urge to stock up on a month's worth of groceries and supplies. Just in case...

Please, Hashem. Geulah (Redemption) would be nice right around now.

It's not perjorative to acknowledge that I am awkward at paying shivah calls. If anything, the hope is we will have to pay too few to become overly comfortable with the procedure. On Motzei Shabbos, I dragged myself out for my last chance at nichum aveilim for a high school friend whose father passed away. Shlomo HaMelech says "Tov leches l'beis avel mi'leches l'beis mishteh"--"Better to go to a house of mourning than to a house of feasting [because the first evokes feelings of repentance the true meaning of life while the second masks the important mission of life with partying and indulgence]."  I feel as though in many ways I arrived at the Shiva empty and left full.

It is a big family, bli ayin hara, and the stark contrast of the mourners, holding babies, speaking about their deceased father was jarring. The circle of life is such an enigma. While we grieve over the patriarch who has exited this world for the Next, youth and vigor cry lustily; synethsizing the two is bitter-sweet.

And the things they said about their father! Countless stories, told with love and admiration. How he adhered to every aspect of halacha (my friend showed me his Mishnah Berurah, a worn cover filled with pages come unbound from constant use with scrupulous notes in the margins) unhesitatingly. The halacha says a father must teach his child to swim, so there were swimming lessons. The halacha states that one must sleep on one side for part of the night and then shift to the other side. So he set an alarm to train himself to do just that. The halacha says a man must support his wife and children. So he worked as a math teacher.

The stories are magnificent and plentiful. There is a tangible reverence in the room for this great man who is no longer here, who changed the lives of so many through his righteous, God-directed actions. The beauty is in his children's effortless awe of their father--shining so bright and so strong. Clearly, this was a person who walked his talk inside his home as well as outside. He made an investment which will reap infinite dividends. His children, his grandchildren and very soon, his great-grandchildren have all been imbued with the radiance of the niftar's legacy. The newborn babies will be touched by it; their parents were directly raised with it. It spreads out in concentric circles and sets off a chain reaction of spiritual strength that will reverberate forever.

So powerful. So inspiring. And yet beyond all the uplifting words and the lofty understanding, the pain and sadness is so real. He is gone. He is loved. It is so hard.

There is so much we do not understand.



 

The bright side of not having a car in Israel is meeting taxi drivers in Israel. It is an astonishing thing to realize that this profession is flooded with some of the most interesting, unique, and special neshamos and exposure to them on a regular basis is actually quite enriching.

So my husband and I treated ourselves to a night out last night--hurray for us! And, of course, we travel in a chauffeuered automobile (only the best!). When I get into the car I'm paralyzed and coughing by the enormous billows of smoke.

"Efshar l'vakesh loh le'ashen," I croak (of course I used slightly less correct grammar in real-time but I'd rather gloss over my hebrew iniquities in retelling the tale!). He, of course, extinguishes his grotesque cigarette and it takes a nice few miles of fresh country air before I can breathe again.

As we get closer to our destination, we strike up a conversation with El Driver and it inevitably turns to that most relevant topic: smoking. His story brings tears to my eyes--and this time it's not the acrid smoke.

"I just went to my doctor," he says. "He tells me that my body is in terrible shape. It's not cancer--baruch Hashem--but my lungs are fused together and I can't breathe properly. I started arguing with him about my prognosis until finally the doctor says to me, 'Listen, you're not a little child. I'm telling you this for your own good. You need to quit!'" He details the horrible, nightmarish symptoms of full-blown emphysema.

After a moment's pause, he says: "You're going to think that I'm absolutely crazy if I tell you this..." Another pause. "I quit smoking for three years. Then, a little while ago I was sitting with a bunch of friends, drinking coffee. And--I thought I'd have a little smoke. Social thing, y'know. So I ask a friend for a cigarette, which is something I hate doing. He gives me one; I smoke it down. Later that day I go to the local makolet and buy just a single cigarette. My friend behind the counter says, 'You're buying just one? Why don't you take a whole pack? You know you'll be back for more!' I tell him, 'Nah, just one.' Of course, a couple hours later I'm back for more, then again and again. By the end of the day the kiosk owner tells me that I've finished a pack. The next day I buy a whole carton--what's the difference? I'm licked."

If you had occasion to read my article this week on Prescription Drug Addiction, you will recognize the same insanity that kicks in in whatever addiction strikes. It defies logic, suspends judgment, jails the addict and throws away the key. This taxi driver says, morosely, that he's paying 1000 shekels to go to a smoking specialist in Yerushalayim whom he hopes will help him. Halevai.

I told this taxi driver something that occurred to me, on the spot. "Y'know, now is Chanukah and that's a great time for you in your smoking difficulties. Why? Because Chanukah is about 'rabbim b'yad me'atim', 'giborim b'yad chalashim'--the many in the hands of the few, the strong in the hands of the weak. Your addiction is so strong but surely this season of miracles will help deliver your 'rabbim'--your challenge--'b'yad me'atim'--into your less-than-powerful grasp and you will be able to conquer it."

I am very inspired by this thought. We all have challenges, some which seem insurmountable. Now is Chanukah. We are me'at. Our challenges are rav. Hashem can deliver the solution into our hands. Amen.

If a writer blogs in the blogosphere and nobody responds, has she really blogged? Okay, not a perfect echo of the famous philosophical question regarding trees falling in forests, unheard, but a valiant attempt still.

It's one thing when my kids ignore me; it's another when my thought-provoking, highly stimulating, carefully formulated blog posts go...uncommented by others!  And this is despite my concerted and calculated effort to end nearly every post with an open-ended QUESTION!

And I KNOW you are out there, you insipient blog-readers, because I, unbeknownst to you, have a site stats meter that measures visits and shows me that on days I post new blogs, my stats spike! Ah hah! How clever; your respect for my powers of deduction has, no doubt, soared as high as my stats will when this post is published!

So I've done a little thinking and poking around--y'know, the dirt-digging journalists are best at, and I've come up with a little theory, called, I've given it away up top, the Theory of Cross Bloggination. It goes something like this: I'll comment on YOUR blog if YOU comment on MY blog. Sounds a little five-year-oldish to my ears, but etiquette is etiquette and protocol is protocol and I've heard a lot worse in other areas. Now, of course, I may be off, but then again, I may be dead on. I've gone snooping around other blogs and it seems that there's this unspoken rule of one blog washing the other.

Thing is, I'm overworked, underpaid, and totally not interested in poking around other blogs in the hopes of coaxing would-be commenters to come out of their cozy little closets long enough to leave some half-baked opinon on what I've written about.

So why am I dwelling on the lack of comments, practically pleading for signs of human life?

Here's a big admission. I think, I really do, that the primary reason I want comments is not because it looks good on  the site, but rather because I'm actually INTERESTED in what my readers think. Whoa--heavy, huh! I think it would not be too strong a phrase to say I really VALUE diverse and intelligent opinions; they help shape my worldview and enrich me and, hopefully, others.

So please, I ask you to dare to break protocol and boldly reach out your hand for that handy little "Add Comment" button. Take a deep breath and...enlighten me!

I'm not promising, but if you do leave something valuable, I may be induced to drag myself over to your blog and leave a half-baked comment in return :-).

My almost-eight very brilliant son whom I love so much was having a conversation with me on Shabbos.

"Mommy," he says slowly, "How c ome Bracha Raiza [my daughter] has long hair but you had short hair when you were little?"  Of course I kvell over his astute early grasp of genetics before bursting his bubble.

"I had short hair because Babby--my Mommy--cut it. Hair grows long unless you cut it."

"Oh." He thinks this over for a moment. Then he says, "Mommy, when I'm older and have a baby girl, will you let me get her ears pierced when she's still in the hospital?"

Lest you think I am a fierce advocate or detractor of early infant ear-piercing, allow me to quickly rise to my own defense and inform you that I have no strong convictions either way. The only time I think ear piercing borders on necessity is when Hashem blesses you with one of those bald, not-quite-feminine-looking girl babies who people constantly mistake for a boy.

But back to my son. I was so touched by the innocence of the question and the heart-breaking premise behind it, namely that I, the parent, would be the decision-maker on through his adulthood and his own child-raising. I gently told him that when he's a father he'll make his own decisions; I will no longer be in charge. He blinked and nodded. I think he knew it intuitively anyway.

I'm sure it is hard to let go when that times comes 'round. For now, I'm content with my role as Chief Earpiercing Officer and Executive Haircut Decider (Long hair only, please. Not that I have childhood haircut trauma or anything!). There is something very magical and astounding about being entrusted with the opportunity to shape my children through my own words, thoughts, and values. Of course, it's also scary as all-out.

Either way, my friend told me I made a mistake in answering my son, Dovid. She said I blew it--I should have told Dovid that I would not let him pierce his daughter's ears; that I should have taken advantage of the opportunity to plant the seeds and assert my role as decision-maker even when he's a grown-up. She's just joking, of course, but the thought is a dangerous one. 

Apron strings are a suffocation hazard.