And with a blink, it was over

The evening air of Yerushalayim shimmered softly as I stood on our balcony, welcoming our guests. We had gathered in honor of our grand nephew Michael’s Bar Mitzvah, sixty family members from near and far, all enveloped by that familiar light that makes even ordinary stone seem touched by G-d.

Behind us stretched the Old City, its walls sparkling in gold, glowing from within.
The sight brought me back to my youth, to the opera performances I adored , where stage designers painted elaborate backdrops to transport the audience into another world. They labored painstakingly, layering color upon color, wiping, reapplying, striving for perfection.

But here, nothing was painted. No stagehand had erected the scene.
The walls of Yerushalayim were not an illusion; they were real, solid, and most of all, eternal. I could walk down the hill in front of me and touch them, and I had done so countless times, placing my hand upon the cool stone, whispering to myself:
“Oh my, it’s real.”

That night, our home was alive with laughter and conversation. We were davening and singing Zmirot. Waiters slipped between the gleaming golden chairs, balancing plates and smiles, while we all hurried to ensure that the evening flowed smoothly. Yet during the speeches, I noticed something ,they had stopped working. For a moment, they simply stood still, gazing out, like the rest of us, at the illuminated Tower of David. The ancient walls glowed against the night, as if Hashem Himself were blessing this city in ultimate glory.

In that instant, time seemed to stop. I felt an overwhelming surge of emotion, a quiet, trembling gratitude. Gratitude for my people, for my country, for the sheer miracle of standing there, breathing in the same air as so many generations before me.

When it came time to welcome our guests,
I opened my mouth, but words failed. My throat tightened; my heart filled. Finally, in a voice barely more than a whisper, I said:

“My dear family who live in the Galut breathe in. Breathe in the holy air of our land. Hold it; let it fill your lungs, your hearts, your souls. And when you return to your home, only then, breathe out.”