The Tissue Angel

A few weeks ago after chorus rehearsal, a friend and I walked over to the coffee kiosk in the playground to have breakfast. 

While we were chatting away in the long and busy Friday morning pre-Shabbat line (I was telling her about the sourdough I buy there every week and keep in my freezer), I felt a hand on my shoulder. 

I turned around and saw a woman who looked familiar. 

(courtesy)

“Hi,” she said. “I don’t know if you remember me, but we shared a tissue at Hersh’s memorial.”

I absolutely do remember her. I will never, ever forget the moment, standing in the crowd at the impromptu memorial for Hersh at the Baka community center, when I looked up and saw an outstretched hand offering a piece of a tissue. 

Had I realized my face was full of tears, I would have taken one of the packets of tissues out of my bag.

Of course I had tissues. I was upset and embarrassed that the packets had pandas on them, which felt wildly inappropriate. But I had them. That day, and in the days that followed, most of us were walking around crying. Most of us weren’t thinking clearly, which explains my neglect. 

She never made eye contact. She just discreetly showed affection with half of a tissue. 

I assured her I remembered, and that I think about that moment often.

Then I thanked her. 

“I’m sorry that little scrap was all I had.” 

“Oh,” I said. “You have nothing to be sorry for.” I realized then just how generous the gesture had been.

“Now look where we are,” she said. 

She didn’t have to elaborate. We all know that we are on the brink of more memorials.

There are going to be more tears.

So many more.

We have so much more grieving ahead of us.

And anger. And hurt. 

But mostly grief. 

I thanked her again, and then she walked away. 

I don’t know her name. I may never see her again. But we are forever connected by an unbreakable bond many will never understand. Which is fine. Because I wouldn’t wish that understanding on anyone.  

I know what I just said about grief. But there has to be more to life than all of this suffocating sadness.

Which is why, in spite of the guilt I feel for any amount of fun or lightheartedness to be had, I sometimes reluctantly allow myself to do things like work in the little garden I planted on the first anniversary of October 7th. Or meet with my writing group for a celebration. Or to invite a friend to come with me to check out a new, absolutely ridiculous but incredibly amusing American style diner in the middle of Jerusalem.

We have to do these things. Look at the percentage of time we’ve spent over the last 490 days frantically checking the news, doom scrolling, screaming and yelling to justify our existence, running to bomb shelters, protesting, lining the streets for funeral processions, going to funerals, and making shiva calls. 

As we’ve all heard Eden Golan sing a million times, “Every day I’m losing my mind.” I don’t know about you, but I’ve lost so much of my mind I’m not sure I have any mind left. 

We can’t get through this without taking care of our bodies, minds, and souls. 

G-d willing though, moments of genuine relief, maybe even joy, are on their way.

We pray that tomorrow, we’ll see three more of the 79 remaining hostages come home, and get an much-needed infusion of stamina by watching reunion videos over and over again. 

And after that, knowing there are 76 more precious souls in captivity, many whom are no longer living, who we won’t see in reunion videos, will continue to tear us apart. 

We’ll hear stories we need to hear. Stories that we’ve been bracing ourselves to hear, but will never be ready for.

But every life is worthy of celebration. There’s a reason we’ve been hearing and uttering the phrase “every life is a universe” over and over again. There’s a reason we have a moral obligation to accept a heinous, inhumane, unfair, unjust, dangerous, potentially lethal deal that’s left us at the mercy of a roller coaster ride through anticipatory joy and anticipatory grief.

A roller coaster ride that is causing us to shed every single type of tear that exists.

When we watch in horror as our hostages are paraded through swarms of armed demons, we shed tears of terror, anger, and pain.

When we celebrate and cheer as we’ve watched some of these very hostages, even with injuries to their bodies and souls, form hearts with their hands, sing, dance, and finally return home to spend their first night in their own beds for the first time in sixteen months, we shed tears of relief, joy, gratitude, and awe.

What will it be like when we finally get off this ride, nobody knows. 

For now though, we’ll continue to celebrate. We’ll continue to mourn. Dare I say we might even start to take the occasional deep breath? 

And we will keep praying. And we will keep fighting. Until every single universe is back where it belongs. 

Don’t worry.

I’ve got a huge supply of panda tissues that I’ve suddenly decided not to replace with anything less whimsical.

If a panda on a tissue packet provides even the tiniest bit of comfort or causes even the faintest hint of a smile, I’ll take it. 

I’ll be more than happy to pay it forward and share them.

Even with people who are walking around with their own supply of unopened, neglected, forgotten tissues.  

I’ll leave you with this Instagram live from Words by Eitan Chitayat. His heartfelt words, along with the beautiful and powerful words of Rachel Goldberg-Polin, which he had the courage to read out loud, are exactly what I need to hear right now.

Mostly though, I’m just grateful for the human connection that he, just like the anonymous tissue angel, created between all of us who are in this together.

#UntilTheLastHostage

Am Israel Chai. 

Here’s to a Shabbat filled with as much shalom, as much comfort, and much-needed joy and relief as possible.