Israel. Shabbat (Saturday) morning, 1am. A family of 8 were torn when a terrorist enter the home of Ruth and Udi Fogel and murdered them both along with their 7 year old son, 2 year old son, and 3 month old baby girl. Unimaginable. Terror.
I dare not, the unthinkable, to twist my thoughts to and fro and ask, why! I dare not, sorrow, to believe that I know this family and somewhere in this physical world my boys have played with their children, that we have feasted together on shabbat or shared a few stressful moments in line at the local grocery store. I dare not, believe, the meaning of life be written upon the stones of Jerusalem to protect and to serve for those worthlessly living. I dare not, cry. Who are we in this moment of unfathomable grief?
A life lived in Israel, that is all. A mere flicker that ignites this Jewish soul. It is here, in this unknown place of darkness before the flame, where something exists; an unquestionable presence that pins my heart to the map of Israel, to the hearts of it’s people and to the familiar faces that we call family and home. It’s the significant life of a single child passing forward the hope that today we stand, that today we exist, that today we owe our life to you. I dare feel, a Jew.