Counting Through the Fire: A Reflection from Israel

“She must be crazy.”

That’s probably what some people think when they hear I choose to live here, in a country where, on sacred days of memory and mourning, wildfires rage. Where people intentionally start fires that threaten millions, including their own loved ones. Where national trauma is deepened by manmade disaster.

But this is Israel. A place where “there’s never a dull moment” is not just a cliché—it’s the daily reality.

Yesterday afternoon, I posted on social media:

“I live in Israel, where wildfires have been raging—first on Yom HaShoah, and again today on Yom HaZikaron. Tonight’s events marking the transition from Yom HaZikaron to Yom HaAtzmaut have been cancelled.

It doesn’t feel like a coincidence. The fierce winds echo the turmoil in our hearts. We remember. We grieve. We feel the absence of those who are no longer with us.

As the fires burn, so does the pain.

At the time, I thought it was just the weather along with Divine intervention. Another terrible coincidence in a long season of sorrow.

But just a few hours later, the truth began to surface.
Reports confirmed what some feared: it wasn’t just the wind. It wasn’t just global warming or dry terrain. It was arson. Arrests were made. There had been organized calls to start fires. Terrorists succeeded in forcing the cancellation of ceremonies nationwide, succeeding, even briefly, in stealing a sacred moment from us all.

Then the winds picked up.

Evacuations began. Fires spread. Even now, they continue to burn—though thankfully, as of this writing, the situation seems more under control.

The fierce winds felt symbolic, echoing the turmoil in our hearts. Echoing the grief, the remembrance, the pain that still simmers below the surface of daily life here. This past week was meant to be a time of national reflection: Yom HaShoah. Yom HaZikaron. Yom HaAtzmaut.

But as the fires burned, so did the anguish.

And then, just as suddenly, rain fell.

Late last night, I stood there, chilled, not just by the coolness of the air but by the feeling that something greater was at work. I felt that same chill when hundreds of Iranian missiles were miraculously intercepted over a year ago. And again this past fall, in moments of inexplicable calm amid chaos.

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about Sefirat HaOmer—the counting of days between Pesach and Shavuot. I’ll admit: I’ve never made it to the end with a blessing. According to Jewish law, if you miss even one day, you can no longer say the bracha. I’m embarrassed to share this and decided this year will be the year when I not only perform the perfunctory mitzvah of counting the Omer, but I reflect on it regularly.

Because, since October 7th, we’ve been in a prolonged sefira—a painful, drawn-out season of mourning, waiting, and uncertainty. We’re counting, but without a known end date. And how can we only count 49 days when the number of hostages still held in Gaza exceeds that? Counting 49 days used to seem like a significant challenge…but now that number seems small in comparison to 573.

The sorrow feels endless. The frustration and anger are real—anger at leaders who cut firefighting budgets (over 200 million shekels slashed, while public safety suffers), at those who choose violence over dialogue, destruction over dignity.

But I can no longer see these events as mere coincidences.

The rain that came after the flames—on the 18th day of the Omer—felt deeply intentional.

Eighteen. Chai. Life.

Even amid the smoke, I saw a sign. And I am choosing to hold onto that.

I’ll continue to speak out. To advocate for a world where life is sacred, where family and community are protected, and where violence is not a language of protest. A world where even in pain, we choose hope.

This isn’t about ignoring reality. It’s about refusing to be numb to it.
The fire was real. The rain was real.
So is the possibility of a future where chai—life—prevails.