Last night, this morning, today: A diary entry

The following was written as a diary entry for catharsis at the end of day, Sunday September 1:

I sat down in my yard with a cup of tea just before midnight last night.

My home was quiet. I had cleaned up from a Shabbat of family, friends and a visiting guest from Israel who needed a place close to the airport to stay.

After everyone went to sleep, I opened my laptop and checked the news before bed.

My heart stopped. I felt sick. My breath was labored.

I furiously searched for details.

I felt dizzy.

I searched for more. My friends in Israel were just waking up. We shared the shock, grief and pain as we found out the traumatic news.

The garden was still. There was a gentle breeze. The crickets chirped. My heart was pierced.

I read everything I could find that offered information.

Then I tried to distract myself. It didn’t work.

At 1:15 am Aaron woke up, and saw I was not next to him. Thinking perhaps I had fallen asleep in the yard and would get bitten up by mosquitoes, he came down to get me.

I did not tell him the news I had just read. “Let him have a peaceful night of sleep, and find out in the morning,” I thought to myself.

I went to bed. Tossed, turned, cried, gripped my anxious chest.

At 2:00 am Aiden came into my bed, saying he couldn’t sleep. I cuddled him in my arms. Trying to hide the tears, I buried my face in his back. He fell asleep. I did not.

At 4:00 am Amitai came in. “I had a nightmare,” he said, “and I can’t sleep.” “My child,” I thought to myself, “your nightmare is most definitely less scary than our current reality.”

I cuddled him on the other side of me.

Surrounded by my two young boys, I dozed here and there, interrupted by the thoughts I had of the mothers whose sons have been ripped away from them.

At 4:45am, I brought them both back to their room. I stepped on Lego while crossing the carpet in the dark. The pang of pain felt apt for the moment we are in.

I got a couple hours of fitful sleep. Before getting out of bed in the morning, I shared the news with Aaron, experiencing the shock, the grief, the pain all over again as the words tumbled incoherently out of my sleepy mouth.

I came downstairs, and again checked the news for more information and found out the grim details of the coldblooded murder of the hostages. I grabbed some tissues and walked outside in the garden to shed my tears.

My kids have seen enough of me crying.

I drove Shachar to Yeshiva University, my Israeli guest as a passenger to get a mini-tour of NYC. I dropped Shachar off at his dorm, walking him to the door to help with some bags.

Before heading into the elevator, he turned around and said, “Bye, Ima. I love you.” Not an obvious thing to expect a 19 year-old to say in front of a group of friends, his first week of college.

“I love you too, Shachar.” Those words taking on an added layer of meaning and depth this Sunday morning. “Don’t take anything for granted,” I think to myself. Especially not your children.

I sent him off to the Beit Midrash for morning seder. Then my guest and I drove home. We listened to an Elul playlist. We sang Chamol out loud. We cried as we navigated through the city streets. She told me about her father’s time in miluim in Gaza, and his current miluim schedule – one week on, one week off – and her mother’s heroism at home taking care of four more children. She was anxious to get back home after a summer working at camp, following a year of national service, but when she found out about the strike at Ben Gurion, she started to worry she would not make it. “I just need to be home at this moment,” she said. “I must get there.”

I stopped at a park along the East River to help her get her mind off of her father’s return to miluim. We walked along the water, and took in a gentle breeze as we looked at the NYC skyline amidst the fog.

“There is a relaxed feeling here that does not exist in Israel,” she said, observing kids riding their bikes and early morning dog-walkers passing by along the river.

“This city is amazing,” she said.

“I’d rather be in Israel right now,” I said.

We got lattes. I took her photo. She told me about her national service.

We got back into the car. We listened to Unetaneh Tokef. My mind wandered to what Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur would look like this year. How many tears would I shed? Are there even any left?

We came home. We were silent. Then the phone rang. It was my nephew, a lone soldier, home from Gaza for a few weeks.

“Aunt Shira, do you have any tennis balls I can borrow?” he asked. “Of course, don’t I always?” I said. “Trying to stay in shape while you are here, so you can be ready for your last push?” I added.

He technically could be finished with his army service, but he signed on for more. “I can’t leave my guys,” he said. So he’s going back.

He had heard that my guest just returned from Yellowstone National Park, so he asked her about camping. They chatted in Hebrew in my kitchen, she helped guide some itinerary choices. His mind taking a break from ten months in Gaza before a return for his final weeks of army service.

I thought to myself, “This is what 21 year olds should be talking about. National Parks, not just National Trauma.”

After I gave him tennis balls from my sports bin, he told me that the soldier killed in Jenin yesterday was a very good friend of his. They trained together. And just like that, now one is here and one is gone.

Then he hopped on his bike to head to the tennis courts and I was left spinning.

I checked the news again. I felt sick.

I hugged Aiden. I kissed Amitai.

“Ima, you know I don’t like kisses!” he said. “I know, but I am your Ima. I am always allowed,” I reminded him.

I tried to distract myself by cooking. I sliced my finger open. The blood of the wound felt apt for the moment.

I returned to my Elul playlist which was on shuffle. This is what played:

מַכְנִיסֵי רַחֲמִים הַכְנִיסוּ רַחֲמֵינוּ

לִפְנֵי בַּעַל הָרַחֲמִים

מַשְׁמִיעֵי תְפִלָּה הַשְׁמִיעוּ תְפִלָּתֵנוּ

לִפְנֵי שׁוֹמֵעַ תְּפִלָּה

Angels of mercies, put our mercies

Before the Lord of mercies

Propagators of prayer, make our prayer heard

Before Hearer of prayer

Propagators of cries, make our cry heard

Before Hearer of cries

Presenters of tears, put our tears

Before King Who gives in to those in tears

Do your best and lift up prayer

Those words feel like a joke at this moment.

How many prayers have gone unanswered? Have our cries even been heard? Is there mercy anymore? Where have our tears gone?

I walk outside. There’s a light rain. The heavens are crying.

I question.

And yet.

I’ll still continue to show up to shul. To daven. To cry.

“Ima, is my omelet ready?” asked Aiden.

“Oh, I know I said I was making it twenty minutes ago, but I got distracted, I’m sorry,” I said.

I’m distracted from life.

Aren’t we all?

I check the news again.

More details. More heartbreak.

Grabbing my chest, I muttered to myself, “I am so heartbroken.”

Not realizing the kids heard me, Amitai asks, “Why are you heartbroken, Ima?”

I couldn’t bear to give them more bad news. They are too young to absorb the shock of this much death, violence, grief and pain. They know Hersh’s face from living in Jerusalem this summer. From davening in shul with his father. From sharing so many common friends.

I text my friends in Israel. “Sending you hugs.”

And – “I wish I were standing with you at the song gathering in Jerusalem, at the rally in Tel Aviv. I am crying with you.”

I can’t get the faces, all the faces, out of my mind.

I make brussel sprouts for a family barbecue tonight, before a different nephew heads off to Israel for the year. I add balsamic vinegar, and maple syrup. The mixture of sweet and tangy a combination that feels right for all the intense emotions of the moment.

I watch a video of my friends in Baka, singing Acheinu in the Goldberg-Polin’s community center.

I cry some more.

I take out the brussel sprouts.

I feel nauseous. I feel faint.

I watch the US Open with the boys to try and distract myself from the pain of the moment. I can’t even bear to look. It feels sacrilegious to care about anything other than the lives we have lost today. Those brutally murdered. Those waiting in the dark for someone to rescue them.

I need to sit down. I can’t breathe.

My guest comes up from the basement – she is leaving to the airport in a few minutes. She hands me a piece of pottery that she made, and the most beautiful thank you note I have received in a long time.

Yesterday, I did not know who she was. Today she feels like my child. That is what it means to be a Jew in this world.

A stranger one day, your child the next.

I take the plate, and light a candle. There are not enough candles in the world to hold the pain of the moment. Yet we continue to light them. And the fire radiates and adds light to the darkness that has enveloped us.

I call my mother. I can’t even speak.

I hug Aiden. I embrace Aaron.

I seethe with anger when I read about the leaked conversation between Bibi and Gallant.

Then my heart aches more.

My guest comes up with her luggage to leave to the airport. I order an Uber for her, I help her load her bags into the trunk, I give her a hug, and I say, “give that hug to Israel for me.”

It’s all I can do right now.