This is a story I wrote right before joining the army. I had a run in with an old man on the bus along with my darling wife, and it made me realize why I loved Israel so much. There is this concept hidden deep past the rhetoric and vitriol that says "You are my brother, because you and I are Am Yisroel." I intend to write more about this, but the following is my thought on how peace with one another and our enemies is possible. For how can we begin to make peace with our cousins, if we can't first make peace with our brothers? The old man in the story is a fictionalized version of the man we met, but the loss of his son was real. That story, and the picture of his son that he showed us, brought home the fact that we do need a real solution, and soon. Too long have we lost doctors, and brides, and hopeful souls. Too long have we waited for peace. Pursue it, and begin with your neighbor. You never know where it will lead...
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
This account is fictional.
The young man boarded the bus in the early afternoon at one end of the busy Israeli city. Jerusalem, home to three major world religions, and center for hope and belief systems to millions. Jerusalem, a city filled with strife, hatred, and violence of action and thought. The city of gold, the city of lost souls, the city of g-d. However, to this young man, as well as many thousands of others, it was just home. He shuffled past the few old women who sat in the front clutching their shopping carts and rattling away about the day’s upcoming purchases. The rest of the bus was relatively empty, so he selected a nice quiet spot near the center of the bus, by the rear door, and put in his headphones. He leaned his head back on the multi-colored seat, and stared out the window at the blur that was this bus route. It was all familiar to him, each building and street, even some of the faces he saw, caught for mere moments as the bus slowed by each station, registered in the mind for several seconds, and then forgotten. The bus swung up onto Keren Hayesod Sreet, making towards King George Street. He watched a group of young seminary girls from America get on the bus, chatting on their cell-phones to their parents or their teachers about god knows what-\
“Sorry!” Said the owner of the elbow that had hit him in the chin. The owner was an old man, wizened by a long life in Israel, and covered with the dust of a life well lived, a dust colored with tragedy and joy, triumph and understanding. He had a small fleck of his morning falafel hanging off his lip. He was dressed warmly but cheaply, the young man saw, and seemed to be still half-asleep. The old man squeezed his way by, chuckling. He sat down across from the young man, sighing deeply with a pleasure that far exceeded the simple act of sitting down, in the young mans eyes, anyway. The young man just glowered at the old man, and went back to staring out the window. He was back in his own thoughts again, when the man touched his sleeve, and he yanked out his headphones, slightly annoyed. The old man just smiled at him and said, “You look like you’re going on a trip, where are you headed?” The young man thought about not answering, but figured the best way to keep the crazy old man off his back would be to answer his questions, and see if he would shut up. “The Dead Sea” “Ah, so you are a tourist here?” “Not so much, I have lived here in Jerusalem for the past several years now.” “Ah, well, welcome! You ever been there before?” The young man thought for a few moments about jumping off at the next stop, but didn’t really feel like getting on again at a later stop, so he answered again. “No, it will be the first time for me.” “It’s so nice and warm down there right now, I should know, I used to live down there with my wife and sons, before we moved here.” He pushed forward in his seat, almost touching the young man, and reached into his oversized pocket. He pulled out a small wallet, and opened it. “This, this is Eli, he’s the oldest. He’s done the army, you know? Are you doing the army?” The young man drew back at this. “No! My family isn’t, I mean I don’t feel the need to join, and I’m too old for them anyway!” The old man smiled again, and continued, “Well, we aren’t all cut out to be soldiers. Here’s Nechemia, he’s my next youngest. He went to the states just last year, to go to college. And here is my youngest…” He paused, and his voice got a little crack in it as he continued, “…Moshe. I don’t seem him around anymore. He was such a bright young boy, you know? Looked like he was going to be a doctor. Can you imagine? My son, a doctor? He would have had little business cards that would have said “Dr. Moshe, PHD” on them in shiny gold letters. He always got up for school by himself, that one. He was on a bus, like this one, and when we went to pick him up from school…” He blinked a few times, and a very small, tired tear rolled down his cheek. “…well, his teachers said he never left that bus. A man got on and blew away my little doctor. But, thank g-d, at least he couldn’t have been in pain, you know, he was always afraid of getting hurt, and I cry sometimes when I…think of him on that bus, if…if…it had lasted…and he had been hurt there for hours and hours all alone, afraid, and I wasn’t there…He, he never really could deal with pain, you know? His mother always used to make him the same chicken soup…I’m sorry, I’m upsetting you.” He stopped and took out a dirty handkerchief and wiped away his tears with a trembling hand. The young man felt dazed. The harsh realities of life can be easily ignored in Israel, but once you get reminded, they hit you like a blow to the gut.
“I understand.” The young man began. “My family also has lost loved ones, but you learn to bury the pain away-” “NO!” Whispered the old man. “If you let the wound heal completely, you also let them go. I am sad my son is gone, but my memories of him, and my sadness for him is all of him I hold left. If I let that go, I’m letting his tiny hand slip away for good, and I refuse to let go. It hurts, but I know that he is still with me. And when my body hurts and my heart is heavy, it’s the knowledge that he is still holding my hand in his, that pulls me out, you know?” He patted the young man on the shoulder, and turned to also look out the window. They were at a red light, and the usual dichotomy of Israel was parading by, across the busy street. Cab drivers sat honking at the red lights as if hoping to somehow acoustically force the light to change to green. Taxis behind them were honking at them as if to disintegrate them through sheer sonic shock. Charedim dressed in long traditional coats hurried past, glancing away from the scantily clad women, who seemed even during the winter to manage to put on next to nothing and be warm. Old men with canes and young boys on skateboards blended together in the web of bodies and personalities weaving strands of life on the street. The young man reached out, now, and said, “What, what can you tell me of the Dead Sea?” The old man smiled again. “Ah! You are young, and have lots of life ahead of you. When I was young, I spent my days in the dead sea, and on the beaches, and all it got for me in the long run was these nasty sun spots. But was I a looker! I used to work in one of the spas down by the dead sea, in fact when you’re down there, stop by an old friend of mine, name’s Itzik. He and I were tankers, lifetimes ago. See if he’s still working there, maybe he could make it cheaper for you.” He leaned back, and grinned, his eyes like projectors, burning memories of the past into the windows of the bus. “Those were the days.” He looked at the young man then, and said, “You look terribly cold! Here, take my scarf. Just till the Dead Sea. I know you’ll get in back to me somehow. We’re all brothers here, right?” He winked at him. The young man started to protest, but the old man shushed him. “It’s all right, my wife gives them to me every year for Chanuka. Keep it, I’m still holding out for the color pattern I like anyway.”
A few minutes of silence passed. The young man saw that they were nearing Jaffa Street, near Ben Yehuda, the pedestrian mall. He got up, thanked the old man, and told him this was his stop. “Got to buy swimming trunks.” The old man smiled again, and wished him well. “Don’t forget sunscreen! It’s hot where you’re going!” The young man stopped for a second, shocked, and then got off the bus, with a final wave. The bus opened its front doors as well, and a flood of humanity surged in, dozens of people waving money and tickets and passes in a whirling, yelling maelstrom at the defenseless bus driver who huddled miserably behind his low brimmed hat and entrenched driver’s seat. The bus started to fill up, and a whole group of young Israeli cheder boys sat next to the old man. As the bus pulled away from the curb, the old man leaned over to the oldest of the bunch and said, “So nu? What did you learn today?”
The young man walked away from the bus, quickly heading towards an alley off of Ben Yehudah. His name was Ibrahim Ibn-Jaamalli, and up until recently, he had been a freedom fighter for a small terrorist group called the Al-Quds Redemption Movement. Very recently. With shaking, sweaty hands, he dropped the detonator he was holding in his hand, disguised as a walkman, and stripped off the bomb belt. He placed them gently on the ground under the dumpster, walked away and called the police. As he caught a bus to the central bus station, he heard police sirens heading towards the alley he had just left. Maybe he really should go to the Dead Sea, he mused. Might be time for a very long vacation. He was trembling all over, and wrapped the horribly colored orange and purple scarf a little tighter around his neck.
Fifty years later, Ibrahim’s son, through several years of struggle and loss, managed to get to the head of his nations political party. He was genuinely interested in peace, and went to great personal danger to do so. He managed to gain popular support and admiration, even from the terrorist organizations he had initially fought with. He helped his people instead of stealing their money and aid funds, and slowly people started to listen. Terror groups were reigned in and disbanded. Homes were built instead of bombs. Guns were destroyed, or scrapped and melted down to make metal for constructing tools. Israeli government officials noticed this, and took immediate responsibility for it, saying how great it was that they could cause peace, and how great it was that it was because of the hard work they and their predecessors had done for years before. At the first major peace talk with the new Arab leader, held during the winter, the photographer got a shot of him shaking hands with the Israeli PM. The picture was in the news that night. In it, the Arab leader had on a horribly colored winter scarf, orange and purple…
Some people say that Moshiach is a concept or an idea. They say that Moshiach will be actually a change in the world caused by millions. I say, whether it really will be an old man, or whether it will be an idea, it makes sense that g-d would help us more readily if the idea that we had was one of kindness. One kind act can do so much. In this case, the chunky knitting job of an old woman with arthritis in her fingers, and loss in her heart was stronger than the toughest armor designed by the best scientists. Several strands of yarn contained a tremendous explosion of hellfire, saving the lives of everyone on that bus. Tears falling down courses they had followed many years before dripped on the indoctrinated hardened heart of a young militant and reached his soul where no bullet could hit. Kindness the boy had never seen from his own people, probably, was displayed by a total stranger, and not out of pity, but out of love from someone like the old man, a fellow human. So maybe, in closing, Moshiach is an old man, who rides a bus instead of a donkey. Maybe Moshiach is an idea of basic human kindness. All I know is this. “Cast your bread upon the waters, for it shall return to you.” Be kind for no reason. It just may come back bigger than you think.
Sunday, November 8, 2009
Monday, October 19, 2009
What I Learn From Endings
Fall can be viewed many different ways. I choose to view it as a time of endings. The trees that have been pushing forth blossoms, fruit, and leaves, are now getting ready to sleep. So they let the leaves go. The leaves then weaken, and as their cycle ends, they put on this fantastic burst of color, one final show of glory and beauty.
Why do the leaves bother? What purpose is in that last-minute beauty, what lesson rests in the riot of color and design to guide us?
When I was still on active duty in the army, I remember a certain occasion where my squad was prepped for a mission that had high elements of danger. The biggest fear was the unseen fear: the mines supposedly placed around our target destination that we trained to avoid, and the training to recover bodies of friends if we failed. Everyone was anxious, in fact it was easily the quietest ride I had ever had to a mission. As usual, someone brought along a bottle of cola to share during the ride, yet on this particular mission, when the beverages and snacks would normally be consumed in a hurry by all the soldiers present, the bottle remained untouched. I can't of course guess the reasoning behind everyone else's decision not to drink, but I know what was going through my head. I realized, and I know it sounds harsh, that it didn't matter if I had that drink if g-d forbid the next minute I could be gone. I usually get a good push in, trying to fill my glass along with everyone else, but here I was, truly not sure what the next few minutes were going to hold, and I realized no one would care whether or not I had one glass right before I died. No one was going to stand up and say, "Joshua was a great man who had that last cup of coke." I certainly wasn't going to remember. The little things, the small things we take for ourselves, or desire, prove meaningless when your life is in question. What is the use in hoarding, or trying to take more for ourselves when every minute could be our last?
I saw in my own fears a lesson. We live our lives inside of bubbles of varying sizes, bubbles of security and a false sense of immortality. Every now and then something comes along and shrinks that bubble, or even breaks it, and that person briefly glimpses the truth. The world isn't always a safe place, peace is a word mistranslated during our lives, and our fates, pre-inscribed in the books of Life and Death, are revealed. We see for a few mere moments what is important, what people remember about us, and that is very rarely what we have done for ourselves. We understand, as the bubble disappears, that when we give more, and take less, we truly do buy the path to immortality, for our kindness travels like a never-ending ripple across an eternal lake. And then, as is most often the case, the bubble returns, swelling up around us as the danger fades, replacing our fears again with desires and self-importance, and the lesson of our true nature fades.
I don't like Fridays. I am sure most people can empathize with me when I say I have never had a Shabbat roll in where I haven't been rushing around in a panic. You know what I mean: you plan for it, you try the 'plan for shabbat all week' approach, you cook days in advance, you get everything ready, and somehow, on the day itself, your wife is lighting, and your falling out the door half dressed in your suit, tripping over your tie which somehow in the haste of the moment got caught in your shoe. You get to Mincha, and it takes halfway through Shemona Esrai to get your breathing under control. I don't get the phenomenon, if someone ever discovers the answer to this dilemma of mine, I'd be eternally grateful. My true issue with Fridays, though, is in even the most perfect marriages, it is a day of stress and shouting, and rushing, and under appreciating of spouses. ("Of course you look great in that dress, honey!" "How can you see with your head in the cholent!") It took me a little while to realize what my problem was.
If you've already read the rest until now, you know where I am going. This Friday, a woman crashed her car into a light pole a couple blocks from where my wife and I are staying. She was fine, thank g-d, and even though the car was a wreck, she was completely uninjured and went straight home from there, as far as I am aware. But it got me thinking. How important is the stress to me, how important is the rush, if you realize the people you treasure are mortal, that if g-d forbid, their time or yours has come, and you may never get to see them again? What use is it that my suit is cleaner than all the rest, what use is it that my house is perfectly tidy, if the people I treasure most aren't there?
Back to the leaves. What do I truly learn from them? In their final days on this earth, they don't spend the time, hoarding energy and growing fat, or waste time accumulating. They give of themselves, don a splendorous array for the benefit of all the people around them, and fall to the base of the tree to cover the grass, and provide it the cover it needs to survive the approaching winter, so that long after the leaf is gone, the grass underneath is still vibrant to greet the spring.
There is a concept of 'live, drink, be merry, for tomorrow we die'. This is the exact opposite of the view we should espouse. 'Live each moment as if it is your last'. It sounds very similar! But the truth of the last statement is that we should live each moment with the realization that we are just in a temporary phase of existence, and that what we perceive as an ending, is truly a beginning. We should understand that the need to own more stuff, and take more, and stress more for our own desires is falsehood. We should understand that immortality comes not from extending life in this transient terminal to the world of eternity, but making other's journeys as easy and as wonderful as possible. By the very act of giving, you are gaining life! Do not be afraid to live, or fear for tomorrow, but live selflessly.
Now if you'll excuse me, I have some trees and leaves I'd like to walk by with my wife. 
Friday, October 9, 2009
Hmmm....
Usually, this wouldn't warrant a post, but I just realized the last time I wrote was in May.
She apparently got the dislike of yams and desire to eat through her chin genetically from her father. Rumor has it I have a baby picture that's just as messy.
She also loves to exercise. Everything fascinates her. Every sound, every food, every person. Just not the camera. Ah, well.
She loved her first ever Orioles game, and she cheered every time we scored, although there were a couple points she dozed off.
So let me try and summarize what's been going on.
Daniella Tikva is getting bigger and more alert every day. She's become the brightest point in my life. She's so cute and friendly and funny, and she knows just what to do to brighten our days.
She apparently got the dislike of yams and desire to eat through her chin genetically from her father. Rumor has it I have a baby picture that's just as messy.
She also loves to exercise. Everything fascinates her. Every sound, every food, every person. Just not the camera. Ah, well.
She loved her first ever Orioles game, and she cheered every time we scored, although there were a couple points she dozed off.
So, Daniella is growing and developing into her own little person, and that is beyond amazing to me. Beyond amazing, also, that my wife and I have made reasonable facsimiles of our parents, and occasionally know what we are doing. Of course, she re-writes the books on parenting, so we've given that up. Plus, few more months, she'll be writing her own. (High Expectations? Ema, you wanted me to be a concert pianist at birth.)
Chana and I came a little while back to celebrate the Bar Mitzva of Eliezer Yehuda, my youngest brother in law, and she stayed while I went back to the army. I was granted, a month after that,s an extended leave of absence in preparation for retirement from the army. So, for the past month and a half I have been back for three family weddings, one in New Square, one in NY, and one here in Baltimore; I have re-developed an interest in landscaping; I have gotten to truly know my wife, after seeing her only on Shabbat since we were married; I have been back for the Chagim, getting a chance to daven again at Tiferes Yisroel; and basically been glad I came back. However, my homeland is calling me, and with all of my family there after that big fuss I made about them joining me there, I should be heading home with g-d's help in a few short weeks. So, dear friends and family on both continents, don't be surprised if you see me walking up to your door. G-d moves me about, and he gives me plenty of wonderful adventures to take part of. I sign off, as of this post in Baltimore, and hope for the next to be in RBS, at home, overlooking my mountains from the balcony of my apartment. A year of sweetness and light to all of my family and friends.
After a Long Silence, a Piece on Amusement.
So, it has been a long and somewhat exciting time in my life, but as my super-blogger mom reminds me, "Johann Pachabel had his 'Canon in D'. But he's a one-hit wonder. Don't let your already written articles be read at weddings or graduations, or you'll be just like him!" I think she was hinting rather bluntly that it may be time to write some more. Unfortunately, I can safely speak for most writers when I say that to write at all depends upon if your muse is available, and if you can move the massive writer's block known as laziness out of your path. I apologize that it has been so long. But enough on that, today is my 23rd birthday, and as part of my new leaf bit for this year, I hope to write frequently enough that my mother has to remind me to slow down, or risk hitting the opposite end of the extreme: going from 'one-hit wonder' to 'overplayed pop-star'.
The new roller-coaster: Fahrenheit!
My darling and I visiting the chocolate factory.
Chana and I got to the park right as it opened, possibly the first time in my life I arrived at the park before most of the day was over, and we had the Great Bear to ourselves twice. This is a picture for my parents, cause I know they missed the Bear.
My darling with me at the park.
All in all it was a beautiful and glorious day, providing a great get-away for my wife and I, and I would like to give a special thank you to my mother-in-law who let us leave Daniella at home. More to follow, g-d willing! Chag Sameach L'Kulam, L'Ha'mishpacha Sheli v'Ha'achim Sheli b'Tzava Shelanu.
I went to Hershey Park with my wife this year for the first time in several years, and I have to say, it's as cool as I remember it. First of all, I love roller coasters. Just the thrill of racing along the cusp of the earth only to be wrenched skyward in a parody of flight and spun through corkscrews my body can't even begin to balance out...the sensations are amazing.
Second it's also Chol Hamoed, and everyone in the park is Jewish. Like an extended family reunion. Here are some pictures from the day, in the style perfected by my mother.
The new roller-coaster: Fahrenheit!
My darling and I visiting the chocolate factory.
Chana and I got to the park right as it opened, possibly the first time in my life I arrived at the park before most of the day was over, and we had the Great Bear to ourselves twice. This is a picture for my parents, cause I know they missed the Bear.
My darling with me at the park.
All in all it was a beautiful and glorious day, providing a great get-away for my wife and I, and I would like to give a special thank you to my mother-in-law who let us leave Daniella at home. More to follow, g-d willing! Chag Sameach L'Kulam, L'Ha'mishpacha Sheli v'Ha'achim Sheli b'Tzava Shelanu.Wednesday, May 6, 2009
Concerning Names
Our wonderful little girl is named Daniella Tikva. She got her name for several reasons. When Chana was wheeled into the operating room, and then miraculously had the baby naturally, we were reminded of Daniel's trip to the lion's den, and the strength and miracles inherent in the name made it clear this was her first name. Her second name comes from our hope that 'Cast Lead' was our last war as a nation, and also because she was born in the days before Yom Haaztmaut. Hope, strength, and miracles. May that truly be her lot.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
To My Little Girl
There's a story that's told about an Indian princess who falls madly in love with a young indian brave in her tribe. Falling Rocks, as he was known, was a brave hunter, and he was taking part in the great hunts of the season. The princess and he decided to marry when he returned. She waited, and as the seasons turned, and as years passed, continued to wait. Her brave never came home. After several years, she decided to go find him. She searched the land from one ocean to the other, and never found him. But she didn't give up hope. She put up signs, so that if someone found her beloved Falling Rocks, they could guide him home. To this day, she still waits for her love to see the signs and come home.
I was told that story by a dear family friend a long time ago, and every highway sign like this I pass, even now in my supposedly rational and practical adult years, I still keep an eye out for that brave.
My wife is a fighter. Chana is a tough and determined young woman, and I am ever so proud of her. On Sunday 26, April 2009 she went into labor at Ein Kerem in Jerusalem. It was a long labor that lasted through the night, and not easy. (By not easy I mean 'impossible for a guy to apply words of pain or tribulation to labor because we can't even remotely understand.) Through it all though, she maintained a strong and positive attitude. The paramedics who carried her off the ambulance called her a hero, because she sat there laughing her way through tough contractions. She never once threatened to kill me, in fact only asked the doctor if I could potentially be stuck with needles or have a proctology exam, just to sort of even the odds. She was talkative and cheerful all the way through, even when I could see it was hurting her. But then came tough news. The only time she started to cry was when the doctor came in and said that she had been in labor too long for the good of the baby, and they were going to do a C-section, immediately. She wanted the baby to be born naturally, and she'd worked so hard. My heart broke for her, and I watched them wheel her, alone and sad, into a sterile operating room, where I could not follow. We waited outside, praying for the best. The door opened and a nurse flew out, yelling, "She's doing it! she's giving birth!" Chana, against all odds, with the buzzer about to sound, gave birth the way she wanted, naturally in the middle of the operating room, without getting surgery or any extra push, other than G-d's. Our darling little girl was born at 04:50 Jerusalem time on Monday 27th, April 2009 under the glare of the operating lamps to a cheering crowd of doctors and family, awed by the miracle of her amazing birth.
With these two things in mind, it makes it very easy, my darling, to wish you the following I have had on my heart.
First, I wish you my gift. I wish upon you the sense of the magical, the love of the fantasy and story, the awe of the mysterious, and the wonder of a child that should never diminish, even as you get older. May you too search for our lost brave to help guide him to his princess. May you always see a story in every wisp of cloud, a dream in every landscape, a castle in every home, a friend in every soul, and a sense of imagination to pilot you through life.
Second, I wish you the gift of Chana's. I wish upon you the strength and courage, the sense of honor and hope, the knowledge of right and wrong that my wife possesses. I wish upon you her clarity of vision, her intelligence and charm. I wish upon you her beauty and grace, and her love. I wish upon you that you may, like her, have the strength to aid in miracles, and have the power to laugh and smile with stars in your teeth, no matter what or where. I wish upon you her spirit and her heart. With these, believe me, you are well blessed.
Third, and separate above all, I wish that you find purpose from your name, shape your own destiny, and draw the best from us to form your own future. May you have dreams and fulfill them, have your own children and feel the wonder I now feel. May you be your own person, with a beautiful and strong personality. May you follow in the paths of your grandmothers and their mothers. May you help others, and love someone they way I love your mother. Above all, my darling, my little angel, remember: Take your own road into this amazing world, but always know, there will always be a road that leads home.
I love you, my angel. Thank you for being a part of my life.
Health and Joy,
Abba
I was told that story by a dear family friend a long time ago, and every highway sign like this I pass, even now in my supposedly rational and practical adult years, I still keep an eye out for that brave.
My wife is a fighter. Chana is a tough and determined young woman, and I am ever so proud of her. On Sunday 26, April 2009 she went into labor at Ein Kerem in Jerusalem. It was a long labor that lasted through the night, and not easy. (By not easy I mean 'impossible for a guy to apply words of pain or tribulation to labor because we can't even remotely understand.) Through it all though, she maintained a strong and positive attitude. The paramedics who carried her off the ambulance called her a hero, because she sat there laughing her way through tough contractions. She never once threatened to kill me, in fact only asked the doctor if I could potentially be stuck with needles or have a proctology exam, just to sort of even the odds. She was talkative and cheerful all the way through, even when I could see it was hurting her. But then came tough news. The only time she started to cry was when the doctor came in and said that she had been in labor too long for the good of the baby, and they were going to do a C-section, immediately. She wanted the baby to be born naturally, and she'd worked so hard. My heart broke for her, and I watched them wheel her, alone and sad, into a sterile operating room, where I could not follow. We waited outside, praying for the best. The door opened and a nurse flew out, yelling, "She's doing it! she's giving birth!" Chana, against all odds, with the buzzer about to sound, gave birth the way she wanted, naturally in the middle of the operating room, without getting surgery or any extra push, other than G-d's. Our darling little girl was born at 04:50 Jerusalem time on Monday 27th, April 2009 under the glare of the operating lamps to a cheering crowd of doctors and family, awed by the miracle of her amazing birth.
With these two things in mind, it makes it very easy, my darling, to wish you the following I have had on my heart.
First, I wish you my gift. I wish upon you the sense of the magical, the love of the fantasy and story, the awe of the mysterious, and the wonder of a child that should never diminish, even as you get older. May you too search for our lost brave to help guide him to his princess. May you always see a story in every wisp of cloud, a dream in every landscape, a castle in every home, a friend in every soul, and a sense of imagination to pilot you through life.
Second, I wish you the gift of Chana's. I wish upon you the strength and courage, the sense of honor and hope, the knowledge of right and wrong that my wife possesses. I wish upon you her clarity of vision, her intelligence and charm. I wish upon you her beauty and grace, and her love. I wish upon you that you may, like her, have the strength to aid in miracles, and have the power to laugh and smile with stars in your teeth, no matter what or where. I wish upon you her spirit and her heart. With these, believe me, you are well blessed.
Third, and separate above all, I wish that you find purpose from your name, shape your own destiny, and draw the best from us to form your own future. May you have dreams and fulfill them, have your own children and feel the wonder I now feel. May you be your own person, with a beautiful and strong personality. May you follow in the paths of your grandmothers and their mothers. May you help others, and love someone they way I love your mother. Above all, my darling, my little angel, remember: Take your own road into this amazing world, but always know, there will always be a road that leads home.
I love you, my angel. Thank you for being a part of my life.
Health and Joy,
Abba
Monday, March 30, 2009
What It Means to Us
A few weeks ago, a tremendous donation was brought to my base, the likes of which I have never seen or heard of happening in our area. I was on patrol when I got a phone call from an old family friend who said he had come in with an agency called the One Israel Fund, and he wanted to know how to get in touch with my commanders. When he told them what he was coming to do, they were very pleasantly surprised. It seems someone connected to this organization had helped donate and gather together a large number of Source Hydration Paks, which are unbreakable three-liter sacks for water that is released through a short hose, designed for the backpacker or soldier. This was a monumental gift. I can attest to the fact that it can be hard to come by water in the field. The hydration needs for an entire unit for just one day can be extremely demanding, and the two standard-issue canteens don't always rise to the task. It was a rare and well supplied soldier who had one of these "shlookers,” as they are called. It turns out, One Israel Fund makes a special point of going to hard to reach and occasionally dangerous bases and outposts to make sure the combat soldiers, who sometimes don't receive the gifts intended for them because of their locations, receive the items people donated so kindly. So, this friend, Gi Orman, whose father helped to build the area we now must fight against, came down with a van filled with volunteers and a special soul and former brother-in-arms named Marc Prowisor. This nice, regular guy comes down and turns into another soldier, rattling off Hebrew to the soldiers, and joking with the commanders, putting them at ease. He pulls out this massive box loaded with these hydration-packs, and gives them out to a handful of soldiers hanging around the gates. The soldiers are shy at first, but soon they are thanking him for the shlookers and trying to draw others over as well.
So, at this time people ask, all well and good, but so what?
What did we do to help the soldiers?
We made them feel good for a few minutes, we gave them a towel, a bag for water, a watch, a vest, so what?
Did it really make a difference?
The root of these beautiful gifts, the true strength in what Gi and Marc and One Israel Fund did on that day, the power infused into the soldiers from all who donated to make it happen, transcends the physical dimensions and properties of the donation the soldier received.
Think of it the way we soldiers do.
You didn't just give the soldier a bag of water.
You held his head on the dust-choked sun-burned fields he defends, and lovingly poured cool, life-giving water down his parched throat, and told him, hush, it's okay, you will be home soon, we love you.
You didn't just give him a towel.
You caressed your child's aching soldiers, aching from weights physical and emotional he shouldn't have to carry, and said thank you.
You didn't just give him a T-shirt.
You ran in front of him with a banner and proclaimed loudly to everyone, I love this person and I support him, even when the world shrouds his name in darkness.
You didn't just write a card, or buy him chocolate, or look at him one day on a bus and say, thank you for defending our country.
You cupped his soul in your hands and warmed it with the love, and the hope, and the light from yours, and gave him one more burst of strength to take on the day, you gave him the ability to survive. You gave him the ability to turn his heart into a blazing torch to ward off the darkness and pain of evil. You saved his very essence.
I want once more to thank, with humility and deep love, the giants who come time and time again to help the soldiers. I want to thank those who give a little, and those who give a lot. I want to thank those who realize that they are the builders of the soul of our soldiers, and I wish them continued success. What do I have to offer? You who give us all these precious gifts, what can we poor, regular soldiers give to you, by way of thanks?
All we have to offer, is a blessing that you have descendants as special as you, that you are granted the ability to continue your great work, and that you be rewarded in Heaven, and defended there, by the army of soldiers you helped make happier.
Thank you, One Israel Fund.
Thank you, you giving and caring souls the world over.
Thank you.
So, at this time people ask, all well and good, but so what?
What did we do to help the soldiers?
We made them feel good for a few minutes, we gave them a towel, a bag for water, a watch, a vest, so what?
Did it really make a difference?
The root of these beautiful gifts, the true strength in what Gi and Marc and One Israel Fund did on that day, the power infused into the soldiers from all who donated to make it happen, transcends the physical dimensions and properties of the donation the soldier received.
Think of it the way we soldiers do.
You didn't just give the soldier a bag of water.
You held his head on the dust-choked sun-burned fields he defends, and lovingly poured cool, life-giving water down his parched throat, and told him, hush, it's okay, you will be home soon, we love you.
You didn't just give him a towel.
You caressed your child's aching soldiers, aching from weights physical and emotional he shouldn't have to carry, and said thank you.
You didn't just give him a T-shirt.
You ran in front of him with a banner and proclaimed loudly to everyone, I love this person and I support him, even when the world shrouds his name in darkness.
You didn't just write a card, or buy him chocolate, or look at him one day on a bus and say, thank you for defending our country.
You cupped his soul in your hands and warmed it with the love, and the hope, and the light from yours, and gave him one more burst of strength to take on the day, you gave him the ability to survive. You gave him the ability to turn his heart into a blazing torch to ward off the darkness and pain of evil. You saved his very essence.
I want once more to thank, with humility and deep love, the giants who come time and time again to help the soldiers. I want to thank those who give a little, and those who give a lot. I want to thank those who realize that they are the builders of the soul of our soldiers, and I wish them continued success. What do I have to offer? You who give us all these precious gifts, what can we poor, regular soldiers give to you, by way of thanks?
All we have to offer, is a blessing that you have descendants as special as you, that you are granted the ability to continue your great work, and that you be rewarded in Heaven, and defended there, by the army of soldiers you helped make happier.
Thank you, One Israel Fund.
Thank you, you giving and caring souls the world over.
Thank you.
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