A Deep Breath

The Lord is my strength and my shield, in Him has my heart trusted, and I am helped.
—Psalms 28;7

No weapon that is formed against you shall prosper; and every tongue that shall rise against you in judgment you shall condemn. This is the heritage of the servants of the Lord, and their due reward from Me, says the Lord.
—Isaiah 54;17

We were granted the right to exist by the God of our fathers at the glimmer of the dawn of human civilization nearly 4,000 years ago. For that right, which has been sanctified in Jewish blood from generation to generation, we have paid a price unexampled in the annals of the nations.
—Menachem Begin

קרוב תזרח השמש, נדע ימים יפים מאלה, הלב נלחם בדאגות. כולם יחזרו הביתה, נחכה להם למטה

הלוואי נדע בשורות טובות

The sun will soon be shining, we'll know better days that these,
Worries battle in our hearts.
Everyone will return home, we'll wait for them out here,
Halevai, we'll hear only good news.
—Eyal Golan

The autumn Israeli High Holiday season is an intense period of shopping, cooking, cleaning, visiting, traveling, and even praying. Much of the country comes to a virtual standstill until after the last day of the Sukkot festival - Simchat Torah. Therefore, whether it's beginning house renovations, going on a vacation, starting a diet, or rearranging the bookshelves, 'after the holidays (aka acharei haChagim אחרי החגים)' is the code to live by.

This year, 'after the holidays' has not yet arrived in Israel. 

(Horror, and tragedy, and hatred arrived instead.

We did not invite them. All our energy has gone into banishing them, and with every step, we have only encountered more.)

But time marches on, as it does, and when Chanuka comes around, I begin to understand that, this year, there would be no period of acharei haChagim, and that, nevertheless, I had better begin to address my two-page acharei haChagim to-do list.

I file away my recipes and to-do lists that I had used during the holidays for next year (hoping there will be a next year).

I cut my hair. 

I hang up some clothes.

I write an email or two, send out a few Whatsapps. 

Slowly, I begin to cross a few items off the list. 

Days slip away.

Outside, I pass a notice board on which hangs a tattered poster advertising a famous singer who was giving a concert for Slichot—the customary penitential prayers said between Rosh HaShana and Yom Kippur. There have been no concerts since then. 

We go to visit a relative who had moved to a different city just before Rosh HaShana. Because of the holidays, he hadn't spent much time in his new apartment before he was called to army service on October 7th. 

His apartment is lovely, with new furniture and a new oven. The pots and pans are shiny, and there are dried flowers in a vase. An avocado pit is sprouting in a jar. 

His bedroom, which sports pink Hello Kitty sheets he had picked up for next to nothing in the local shuk, is relatively neat. After all, it has hardly been used. What makes me pause, however, is the lulav and etrog, in their protective plastic case, that have been leaning against the wall for close to four months. The leaves of the branches have gone moldy.

He sees me looking. "I never got around to dealing with it. I don't know what to do with it anymore", he says.

I go out for coffee with friends. There are off-duty soldiers drinking coffee, eating cake, sipping fruit shakes. There is a soldier pushing a small child in a stroller, a gun slung over one shoulder, a diaper bag over the other. 

We go to a wedding. The magnet guy has cameras slung over his shoulders like guns. At this wedding, I count about the same number of guns as cameras. There would have been more guns, but the groom and his unit had been released from active duty in Gaza two weeks before. 

I go to a funeral. A woman in the community, who had children and grandchildren and great grandchildren, has sadly passed away. There are guns, slung like cameras, around a few shoulders. 

And just like that, Chanuka, with its light and its hope, is long over, and now it's Tu B'Shvat, with its promise of growth and renewal. 

The days are still dragging on and it's the dead of winter. 

We are burying our dead.

The week has been cold and rainy. 

Rain is a blessing in the Holy Land, but everyone thinks only of the soldiers and the hostages standing, serving, sleeping, in the cold. 

The trees, naked of their leaves, are beginning to sprout again. 

The almond trees are blossoming, as is the lemon tree in my backyard. We will hopefully have lemons before Rosh HaShana.

My acharei haChagim to-do list has morphed into my pre-Pesach to-do list. 

I take a deep breath.

And another.