One thing I never expected when I made aliyah was how often strangers would bless me.

Not politely wish me a good day.

It started with taxi drivers.

Since arriving in Israel, some of my most meaningful conversations have taken place in the back seat of a taxi. Israeli taxi drivers are rarely just drivers. They are commentators, philosophers, and sometimes even theologians.

Recently, during a short ride through Jerusalem, a driver said something that stayed with me.

“It’s the first time I’m watching the news on TV,” he told me, “and it’s good news. With everything happening, we’re seeing Yad Hashem (the hand of God) — we’re seeing miracles protecting us.”

I paused when he said that.

For so long, the news here has felt heavy. Painful. Uncertain. From the moment the hostages were taken, there has been so much we didn’t know, so much that felt overwhelming.

And yet, here was someone telling me that for the first time, he could watch the news and feel a sense of hope.

Not because everything is resolved.

But because, in the middle of it all, he could see something else.

I had never heard someone speak about the news that way before.

Then he asked about me.

I told him that I had made aliyah and that I was currently looking for work.

Immediately, he began offering blessing after blessing.

“May Hashem help you.”

“May you find success.”

“May you have parnassah.”

“May everything work out for you.”

It was so sincere. So effortless.

And it wasn’t just that driver.

Over the past months, I’ve received blessings from Wolt delivery drivers, from people I’ve only just met, from strangers who learned that I had come to Israel and simply wanted to wish me well.

But I also experienced it somewhere I didn’t expect.

While volunteering at the rehabilitation center at Hadassah Hospital, I worked with a volunteer organization that had a dedicated room stocked with items to distribute — coffee, popcorn, waffles on a stick, iced coffee, and more — for patients, their visitors, and the hospital staff.

And it wasn’t just the patients.

It was their visitors.

The gratitude was always there.

But it went beyond gratitude.

There was always a bracha (blessing).

Not just “thank you.”

And if I did something small — even just a little more than expected — it was as if it opened the door for even more.

It didn’t feel rehearsed.

It didn’t feel formal.

As if offering a bracha is simply part of how people speak here.

There’s something deeply beautiful about that.

In many places, strangers exchange small talk.

In Israel, strangers exchange blessings.

And each time it happens, I’m reminded of something simple but powerful.

These aren’t just kind words.

© The Times of Israel (Blogs)