Under God’s Paintbrush

A friend texted me this morning, “I can’t wait to see your sunset pictures again.” In 2020 I took up photography – an amateur marveling at God’s creation, wondering if I could ever truly capture its grandeur. Friends became accustomed to my near daily posts of painted skies, dimpled moons, and the quiet poetry of nature. On October 7, 2023, I vowed there would be no more sunset pictures; I would use my platform to educate and spread the truth about what was happening in Israel and Gaza, the rise of antisemitism and how we got here. And I would do so unapologetically until the hostages were freed.

And here we are…

Overjoyed at reunions of what we once thought impossible, yet tempered – as our joy so often is – with the bodies of the deceased yet to be returned, the more than 900 soldiers who made the ultimate sacrifice for our people, the release of heinous, barbaric terrorists…the unbearable price we continue to pay.

For two years, many of us have been in a state of liminal suspension, donning our numbered masking tape strips, “Bring Them Home” dog tags, necklaces proclaiming our tribal faith, while carrying a resolute spirit of unabashed pride in our people, our nation.

Before we even identified the charred, mangled bodies to bury, they were marching in the streets for our complete destruction, justifying the atrocities that had rained down upon us, while we struggled to absorb what had unfolded. We were not given the luxury to grieve. We had to defend our country – on the ground in the south, the north, central Israel, and in the media. Survivors of rape and mutilation had to begin healing, knowing our brothers and sisters languished in the tunnels of Gaza. All this, while faced with a hostile world, a United Nations, which only seemed united in their hatred of us.

And yet, there was hope…

Stories of miracles, military feats that seemed drawn from the realm of fiction, stories of courage, of improbable survival, and of compassion from unexpected corners. There were friends, many not Jewish, who lent support and strength, a glimmer of light in what seemed to be a cavern of darkness. I’ll never forget the high school friend who messaged me – I’m changing my picture to “Release the Hostages” until they all come home. Or another childhood friend who, when hearing people were afraid to display their Chanukah menorahs, boldly lit one in her window. These are the people who give me everlasting hope for humanity.

And now, as I look at the thinned out roll of masking tape next to my overly used black sharpie, I pray that the sacred bodies of our loved ones will soon return as well, that those families who have suffered the most know and feel the love and support from people who are not related by birth, but bound by heart, who are truly mishpoocha.

And perhaps – just perhaps – the time has come to trade my dog tags for my camera strap, to once again stand under God’s vast paintbrush, and feebly attempt to share His beauty with a world so desperately in need of it.