Sunday, January 4, 2009 at 3:25am
On Tuesday evening as I scrambled to bathe and put my 6 children to sleep, the news announced that the ground troops were getting ready to enter the scene in Gaza and that we were considered under high alert once again. As the force in Gaza continued we could hear the rumbling of explosions in the air and under our feet as my children looked up at me from their cozy beds. With trusting smiling faces, they said Shema and cuddled up to sleep. I felt I should somehow address the “matzav” or “situation” (as we call it here) even for just a minute, as everyone was quiet and comfortable at that moment. I whispered to them, “Do you know why we say Shema?” They nodded sleepily. “Because we want to remember that G-d protects us, all the time, no matter what is going on around us…. G-d will always be there for us, right?”, I said. I smiled and looked for clues as to how they were feeling emotionally. My 4 year old just barely awake, nodded and yawned and whispered, “Always.” If only we had the faith of these little children, I thought to myself as I left the room.
Distracted with worry for our troops, I made my rounds in the bedrooms and kissed each one on the cheek and went instinctively to lock the front door. My husband was out, having important meetings in Jerusalem with his Israeli partners, after all, they had much to discuss, as most of them would be leaving for their reserve duty in the next few days. Business would grind to a halt once again, and my husband would be left to handle the American side while the Israeli side fights for their lives. I make a mental note that I will need to be very supportive in the coming weeks. Before he left tonight he asked me if I remember how to use the gun in the safe that sits atop my sewing machine table in our office. I nodded yes of course and thanked him, even though I don’t, nor do I have any desire whatsoever to find out.
As I settled down on the couch to read some Psalms, my eldest 10 year old daughter, Sara, peeped her head out from the doorway. “Mommy, I forgot to tell you something…” she said with tired eyes, “my friend and I would like to make a surprise birthday for our friend in Jerusalem on Thursday, and if Tatty can’t drive us, we’ll just take the bus together. Goodnight Mommy.” Confusion and worry, along with some amusement that my baby feels old enough to do that, all seeped into my thoughts at the same time. “But wait,” I told her, “doesn’t that mean that you will need to take a city bus from here, and then get off in Jerusalem, and board another bus in Jerusalem to the correct neighborhood, and then find her house after getting off in her area?” She looked at me, slightly annoyed and said, “Well yeah. Are you worried?” She looked me in the eye and sensed my position. She plopped herself down across from me on a large beanbag with the attitude of someone who was just hit with an unpleasant trivial task… “Well let’s talk then, what are you worried about?”
I felt myself preparing for battle as I rattled off all the potential dangers of such a situation….
- The ride from our settlement in the West Bank into Jerusalem.
“The busses are bullet proof, Mommy. Remember?...”
- I’d be much more comfortable if your father drove you.
“You do it all the time, and besides, Tatty’s car is not bullet proof…”
- Well, what about getting off in Jerusalem at the right place?
“We know which Street to get off on, and if it makes you feel better we will ask a Mommy on the bus to tell us when to get off…”
- What about getting the right bus to her neighborhood? What if you get on the wrong bus?? There are routes to very dangerous Arab neighborhoods…
“We are taking the number 11, we will make sure to ask someone if it is going to the right neighborhood…”
She looked bored at this point and was examining her nails. I persisted.
- What if something happens and she isn’t there or something? What if something happens and you need to evacuate the bus and find a shelter? Times are uncertain now sweetie, and I don’t know what will happen?
She got up now and came to sit next to me on the couch. She looked into my eyes and said, “Then we’ll go with everyone else and we’ll get through it with everyone else. And we’ll pray.” I stared at her and wondered when it happened that this baby grew up, and how she developed such a strong sense of faith and security in G-d. I wondered if I was about to make a monumental mistake in letting her go. I asked her if she was even just the teeniest tiniest bit afraid of the “situation” now. She answered, “Yes. But my hishtadlus is my prayer, and I know that G-d doesn’t want me to stop my life and stop serving Him. He wants me to keep doing what I need to do to be a better person no matter what is happening around me. Giving up to the Arabs is like killing OURSELVES, because then we’re not really alive.”
I told her she could go. And for two days until the big day when my baby would leave my secure embrace and enter the wild world outside, armed with her Psalms and a good friend, I worried a little once in a while and recalled her words often. I glanced at the young lady looking all cute holding the little birthday present for her friend in Jerusalem, standing by the door, waiting to leave. I wanted to finish listening to the news before I kissed her goodbye. It was announcing that the risk for terror was high and that sometime in the next few hours there would be a war siren drill, and we would all need to do a test run to our sealed shelter rooms. I flicked it off in the middle, and kissed my baby goodbye and handed her a cell phone. I told her what she already knows, that G-d is with her and that He will always love her, and said, “bye” with a smile. She turned and said, “Not ‘bye’ Mommy, ‘Shalom, v’Lehitraot’”, the Israeli way of saying goodbye, meaning ‘Peace, and until I see you again’.
