The Promise In The Shelter

My wife and I had come to Israel for our first grandchild’s wedding, expecting to stay only ten days. Instead, that very Shabbos, the current war with Iran began, and our return home was delayed for nearly two additional weeks. During those anxious days of sirens, shelters, and uncertainty, I found myself writing.

THE PROMISE IN THE SHELTER

During our unexpected extra days in Israel, we found ourselves part of several unanticipated simchas (celebrations) and the recipients of unexpected chesed (kindness).

Last Wednesday evening, a wedding took place just steps away from our room in the new boutique hotel where we were staying in Modi’in-Maccabim-Re’ut. Given the public gathering limitations at the time, the guests reserved individual rooms to turn it into something of a destination wedding. The hotel had enough mamads (safe rooms) for the guests. They also provided the food.

And if a chuppah (wedding canopy) and a keyboard coincidentally showed up? No big deal.

Despite several attempts — and to my wife’s chagrin — I was unable to negotiate the dance floor to reach my after-dinner dessert on the opposite side of the room. So we retreated to our room. A few minutes later there was a knock on the door. A smiling waiter presented me with a plate filled with selections from the Viennese table. A very observant house manager had noticed my distress and made the gracious gesture.

And if some of the local overnight guests with room reservations were nowhere to be found the next morning? No big deal.

On Shabbos, the small banquet hall was set up for a beautiful Shabbos Sheva Brachos. In addition, there was to be a bris in the shul, with the combined minyanim joining together for Shabbos morning davening.

A siren sounded around 11:00 a.m., about the time scheduled for the bris. Our son had come to check on us, as we had decided to remain at the hotel after four visits to the shelter on Friday night. As we emerged from the shelter that last time, the baby’s family looked expectantly toward our son, apparently hoping he might be the mohel who had been delayed by the siren.

But the most inspiring moment came Thursday night — really early Friday morning — in the hotel shelter. A siren sounded at 1:00 a.m. In addition to our new best friends from London, whom we met in the shelter at each warning, a young couple burst in and sat down across from us.

They were wearing matching long-john Mickey Mouse pajamas and looked to be in their late twenties at most. He was on a short break from army duty in Gaza.

We soon learned that they already had five children, who had been farmed out to grandparents for the evening.

This young couple had clearly taken advantage of a rare quiet night together.

It was hard not to see in them something deeper: a simple and powerful confidence in the future of Am Yisrael.

May this anonymous young family continue to grow in good health and safety. May they — and we — see all their children, present and future, fulfill their God-given destiny in peace, strength, and good health.

For even in a shelter at one in the morning — between sirens, in the glow of matching Mickey Mouse pajamas — we were reminded once again of Hashem’s quiet assurance: Am Yisrael lives, and will continue to live.