Finding God (and Ourselves) in the Safe Room
As missiles fall and sirens wail, a mother clutches her children in the safe room — and finds, in the middle of fear, glimpses of hope and of who we’re becoming.
Last night was surreal. Again.
My family and I huddled together in our safe room, my heart pounding as I clutched my four-year-old son, his innocent eyes full of questions. Outside, the now-familiar roar of missiles echoed. Sirens from every direction, distant and near.
He asked, “Why exactly are we here again?”
I gave the same soothing answer I’ve given before—that when there’s a siren, we gather to pray for the soldiers. But even he could sense it: this wasn’t just a drill or another “event.” There was a different kind of fear in the air.
A charged silence stretched between the booms. We could feel it—the shaking windows, the low thuds that travel up through the floor, the deep, stomach-dropping boom of impact.
Not just noise—vibration. Physical. Primal. Like the ground itself was reacting.
And then, we prayed. I did what I always do when I don’t have answers—I sang.
Together with my daughters and my little boy, we sang Shema Yisrael and Adon Olam. The melody wrapped around us like a protective shell.
I turned to my oldest daughter and whispered, “Happy birthday.”
Fourteen years ago, on this very night, she was born. I remember it clearly. I was in labor on the cusp of something new. And just like last night, I sang.
Somehow, the melody helps bring things into the world. It comforts, connects, and opens something deep inside.
And last night, even in the chaos, I felt that same undercurrent: not just fear—but movement. A shift. It wasn’t just a siren. It felt like labor again.
A Different Kind of Pain
This morning still feels weird. Surreal. Like we’re slipping into another reality—one we thought we left behind with Covid.
Schools closed. Schedules scrapped. Kids wandering the house in pajamas. Everything online again—Zoom classes, online story time, digital distractions trying to replace structure.
And we’re glued to our phones. Waiting for updates. Forwarding links. Checking in. Trying to stay human in a very inhuman feeling stretch of time.
We’ve been here before. And yet—we haven’t. This is new, heavier.
Birth in the Darkness
There’s an ancient Jewish idea that before something great is born, the world feels like it’s shaking. Contractions, confusion, moments of chaos—they’re often what comes right before transformation.
Labor isn’t just about pain—it’s about progress. Every contraction means you’re closer to the moment of birth.
And perhaps that’s what this moment is too. Maybe the fear we’re feeling isn’t just a wall—it’s a threshold. We’re standing right at the edge of something beginning to emerge.
History isn’t random. Maybe this is the beginning of something larger than we can see.
Something we’re being invited—not forced—but invited to be part of.
What Are We Becoming?
We all carry an image of ourselves—of who we are, what we can handle, where our limits lie. But over these months, those images have been tested.
And now, we’re being asked to stretch again. To hold more than we thought we could. To find strength we didn’t know we had.
In the safe room, with the explosions still echoing, I looked at my children and felt that familiar feeling I’ve had during labor: This hurts, but something is coming through. Don’t give up now.
I thought about the world, about the Jewish People, about the unity, the heartbreak, the sacrifice.
About how the script seems to be shifting, not by accident—but by design. A moment where fear can turn into clarity. Where loss can turn into awakening.
And I whispered, not just to my kids—but to the sky outside: “Strengthen us. Let this pain mean something. Let us become who we’re meant to be.”
We are tired. But we’re still here.
Still singing.
Still showing up.
Still holding each other, and holding onto something greater—something we can’t always name, but deeply feel.
Thank you, God, for the strength to keep going.
For the miracles.
For the love that still flows through this broken, beautiful nation.
For the songs that carry us.
For the tears that make space for something new.
We are ready for the rebirth.
Of ourselves.
Of our people.
Of this wounded, yearning world.