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A memory from the start of the war. A reality that, for many, still holds true.

Image by ittakesateam

My house is a wreck.

There are dirty dishes from breakfast in the sink. And on the counter. And food left out all over the place.

Someone didn’t flush the toilet.

There are toys on the floor wherever I look. Markers and crayons. Scissors and papers cut up.

And the kids are loud. It’s hard to get any work done.

My house is never a wreck. My wife keeps the place impeccably clean. But she’s at work now, and we’re helping out for a day with the grandkids, since their father is doing Holy Warrior work in Israel’s Defense Forces.

My house is a wreck.

But it’s a house without bullet holes and pools of blood. The walls may be a bit scuffed here and there, but they are not weeping bitter tears of tragedy. It’s a house rattling with the sound of children, and not heaving with the memory of children suddenly gone.

My house is a wreck. Thank you, G-d.

Thank you G-d that my house is a wreck.

About the Author

Jeremy Staiman and his wife Chana made Aliya from Baltimore, MD in 2010 to Ramat Beit Shemesh. A graphic designer by trade, Jeremy is a music lover, and produces music on a regular basis -- one album every 40 years. He likes to spend time with his kids and grandkids slightly more often than that.