Mundane and Miracles

Sitting in the very upscale shopping mall at Hadassah Ein Kerem, I forgot for an hour or so that there is a war being waged mere minutes from my Jerusalem home.  In every direction. Having just completed my regular clinic procedure, I contemplated indulging in some very overdue retail therapy; right next to the mani/pedi spa, my favorite shoe store was having a 50% off sale and I really needed some new black dress flats. My husband meets me with a beautifully packaged tray of dried fruits that he can never resist and proceeds to check out the restaurants.  “Do you want sushi or shawarma?,” he asks, pretending that it doesn’t matter to him while knowing that I will say ‘shawarma’ because he hates sushi. He puts in our order and waits for his number to be called while I run into the pharmacy for a new gel-eyeliner and hair-glaze.

It is still early in the evening when we drive home. Although the weather is growing increasingly cold at night – most days are still warm and sunny – a magnificent catering hall near my home that overlooks the walls of the Old City has erected a beautiful floral chuppah (wedding canopy) for what is certain to be a lavish event tonight. I catch a glimpse of the delicate bride posing for photos amidst the trees and breathtaking skyline. It feels so familiar. So happy and hopeful. So Israel.

I’m tired but there are still two or three items on my to-do list. As always, Ronney shuts the bedroom door and I hear sounds of the Netvision shows he relies upon to fall asleep. Car crashes, muddled explosions, and unmistakable Korean dialogue. I sip a cup of tea and make a menu and corresponding shopping list for our annual Hanukkah brunch. The dog needs a walk and I pull on a sweatshirt that my husband had casually thrown over a dining room chair.

The street seems unusually quiet tonight, despite it being a Thursday. It is then that I remember. We are at war. People are home. Shabbos is coming and everyone, Torah observant and secular, yearns for a respite from myriad heartaches that sit one or two buildings away from every one of us. We all have soldiers. It all weighs so much, the futility of defending ourselves from the pointed fingers of those who both vilify us and rewrite our role in a war that was ferociously imposed upon us.

I cannot imagine how we will be on the other side of this chapter. All of us have changed but the parts of us that remain the same are what makes life here so magical. Israelis are passionate and vulnerable, short-tempered and light-hearted.  We understand that time isn’t guaranteed and there is a fragility in even the most mundane moments. This magical ballet of the Israel experience forms a tapestry of determination and inexplicable hope.

The dog has finished her business and we return home. A border-patrol jeep passes by, blue and red lights flashing, and in the distance, I faintly hear joyous music coming from the wedding.

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