Be Strong, have Emunah HaShem.

By David. The Lord is my light and my salvation-whom shall I fear? The Lord is the strength of my life-whom shall I dread?

 When evildoers approached me to devour my flesh, my oppressors and my foes, they stumbled and fell.

If an army were to beleaguer me, my heart would not fear; if war were to arise against me, in this I trust

One thing I have asked of the Lord, this I seek: that I may dwell in the House of the Lord all the days of my life, to behold the pleasantness of the Lord, and to visit His Sanctuary.

For He will hide me in His tabernacle on a day of adversity; He will conceal me in the hidden places of His tent; He will lift me upon a rock.

And then my head will be raised above my enemies around me, and I will offer in His tabernacle sacrifices of jubilation; I will sing and chant to the Lord.

Lord, hear my voice as I call; be gracious to me and answer me.

In Your behalf my heart says, "Seek My countenance"; Your countenance, Lord, I seek.

Do not conceal Your countenance from me; do not cast aside Your servant in wrath. You have been my help; do not abandon me nor forsake me, God of my deliverance.

 Though my father and mother have forsaken me, the Lord has taken me in.

Lord, teach me Your way and lead me in the path of righteousness, because of my watchful enemies.

 Do not give me over to the will of my oppressors, for there have risen against me false witnesses, and they speak evil.

 [They would have crushed me] had I not believed that I would see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living.

Hope in the Lord, be strong and let your heart be valiant, and hope in the Lord.

Shiva House: In the Streets of Mourning, in the City, in the Place

by Geula Girtz

The streets, the supermarkets, the stations: the public domain has turned into one large house of mourning, its walls are made of sky and concrete, of grass and asphalt, the shiva house of the city, of the place. Seven days, another seven days, and again, another seven. One mourner gets up from shiva, and another sits down. On the park benches, on the seats of the bus. Every day a new face, a new life, a new story of bravery, of grief is added to the land of mourning.

I can see it on the faces of the people passing by, solemn, formal, tense. We pass each other in silence, with bowed heads, with unspoken respect. The woman walking in front of me, pushing her baby carriage, has she been home alone this past month, her husband in reserves? Is he serving at the border? Is he fighting in Gaza? What does she tell her five-year-old, walking next to her, moaning for ice cream? This man walking by, has he lost both his daughters-in-law in the massacre? Were they shot in their bedroom or in the living room? Is he now hosting his sons and grandchildren? How does he wake and how does he sleep? Do the children play? The young girl skipping with her sister, when last did she see her father? Is he part of the Rabbinic team identifying the bodies? Does he check for signifiers, like tattoos, birth marks? What if no skin is left? When he comes home at night, how does he embrace his children? How does he do this for weeks on end? The Arab Israeli woman behind the checkout smiles at my toddler, bends down to play. Her face is less tense than a week ago. Does she have family in Gaza? Have they made it to the south? The woman buying chicken from the meat counter, she is frayed, grey around her eyes. When last did she sleep? Is she worried about her son, an elite soldier who has been fighting terrorists since the early morning hours of Black Saturday, one of the first responders? Did he lose his best friend, did he shield him with his body while the helicopters sprayed bullets and bullets and bullets from above.

I can see it on the faces of all the people walking by, as we brush each other on our way through the streets of this house of mourning, through the supermarket of mourning, through the playground of mourning. I exit my house, where a candle for the ascending souls remains lit, my sorrow extends into the streets, the city and her bridges, her trees, she is one large house of shiva. She breathes slower, heavier. We nod, we blink. We avoid our own reflection in the windows as we pass, like mirrors covered with dark cloth. We aren’t sure which words to utter, so mostly we remain quiet. It’s prohibited to ask a mourner, how are you? You’re not meant to ask about the mundane. You are meant to wait for the mourner to start speaking. So, in the streets of shiva we walk with intention, with humility, we all wait for each other to speak.

And when you leave a house of mourning—and one day we will—tradition has a formula, words of comfort to offer before you walk back into the world of light. HaMakom yenachem etchem betoch shaar avelay tziyon v’yerushalayim. May the Omnipresent comfort you among the rest of the mourners of Zion and Jerusalem. HaMakom, one of the many names for God, means “The Place.” God is the place, the street, the city, the trees. The playground, the bus stop, the supermarket. The Divine is everywhere, in each and every place, in each and every being. Your comfort is the place itself, the house, the land. Omnipresent is your comfort, when you wake and when you sleep. In each and every place. From the four corners to the center. In Zion and Jerusalem, in Tel Aviv, Sderot and Rahat. In Be’eri and Ashkelon. And yes, in Gaza. In each and every being. Betselem Elokim, created in the image of the Divine. The formula is a prayer, that if we accept the Divine as HaMakom, the Omnipresence, we may find comfort. We will indeed become one.

There is a passage in the Talmud in the tractate of Brachot that later became a popular Jewish song. It’s called Tanya. 

The conclusion of the passage is that we should never take a blessing from a “normal person” for granted. The story is about an angel asking a human being for a blessing. 

This image of a Jewish child blessing one of our heroes penetrated my soul! 

One nation. One people. One heart. All in this together. ✡️🇮🇱💪❤️🙏🥺

Hillel Fuld