The Ironed Uniform & The Tear-Stained Shirt

“I’m going to need the car tomorrow.”

“It was a bad day for Golani.”

This message pops up on WhatsApp early yesterday afternoon and my heart sinks.

My son, my beautiful son, who has already seen and heard and smelled and done so much, is hurting again.

With the Golani WhatsApp network, he knows almost immediately that there has been a terrible tragedy for Golani in Lebanon – and specifically for his battalion, 51 . What he doesn’t know are the names.

We spend the afternoon and the evening waiting, and waiting, and waiting.

Which of his friends will he mourn this time? Where will he need to be for funerals?

The wait is unbearable.

But nothing, of course, compared to the knock on the door that these six families have experienced; the devastation and lost dreams that they are now spiraling into.

And then the names are revealed. And our son shares pictures with us reflecting the deep bonds he has shared with these young men, these fellow fighters, these companions. The fighting in Gaza, the laughter, the long army hikes, the never-ending commitment to country and each other.

And as each picture comes into my WhatsApp, my despair builds. These beautiful, smiling faces. These leaders of our people.

How much are we expected to take? And for how long?

How much of the country’s burden can so few continue to have on their shoulders?

My thoughts and tears are interrupted by the notification that there have been sirens in Eilat; that a death drone has been shot down.

I quickly switch to checking in on my 18-year-old who is learning in Eilat.

He’s ok.

As was my 16-year-old a few days ago, hiking and camping with his school in Mitzpe Ramon when sirens sounded there.

And the news is filled with rioting in Amsterdam where they are screaming for the extermination of the Jews; with the announcement that Kibbutz Nir Oz has voted to rebuild as a victory over the destruction on October 7^th; with the crushing video of hostage Sasha Trufanov who has been captive in Gaza with 100 other Israelis for more than 400 days.

And I drive to work this morning listening to Rachel Sharansky Danziger interviewing Rachel Goldberg Polin and Rachel Goldberg about their strength, their devastating losses and their belief in hope.

As the tears stream down my face, as they do so many mornings, I wonder when it will end.

I reflect back on the kiddush we were honored to attend last Shabbat for a chayal boded (lone soldier) from Holland who just received his beret. His parents came from Utrecht for his beret ceremony and spoke with such admiration for their son and the path he has chosen; their words were cloaked in longing, fear, devastation for the recent events in Amsterdam. And with such pride for the path their son is taking; the future that he has created for himself in Israel.

And I reflect on the price we are paying for the right to live as Jewish people in our ancient homeland.

And the price we have paid when we didn’t have this privilege.

And the price we are paying in places other than Israel even when we do.

We have no other homeland. We have no other choice. We have no other future.

But the price, oh the price, we are paying for the ability to live here in all of our Land from north to south.

The price reflected daily in my tear-soaked shirt and my triple-beating heart.

And in the ironed officer’s uniform waiting for my son to put on soon, to attend funeral after funeral after funeral.