Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. We all think we have one more tomorrow. We all assume that we’ll see the sun, be with those we love, to laugh and love and live. There’s a song that asks, “If today was your last day”- what would you do? What would I do if I knew that by this morning, at 11:04, I wouldn’t be able to tell those I loved goodbye, be able to hug them or get mad at them and make up for all the small thoughtless things I said or did? After three years, I still can’t answer that question. I still go to bed assuming I have all of tomorrow and the next day and next week and next year, to make up, to love, to fight, to make up again and to laugh and cry together. To be annoyed when someone is more huggy than you and you’re not in the mood, to love them even more for somehow finding the time to make your sick daughter her favorite soup recipe because you asked and even though it wasn’t in her freezer and she was busy, she made the time because she loved so deeply and completely. To miss, even three years later, the sighs that so annoyed you then, that you’d give anything to hear again next week at school. To look at your chat and see that three years ago this Wednesday afternoon, you were both too busy to do more than send each other Happy Pesach stickers. And her last words to you were “cool” about your changing sticker. Now that chat is filled with three years of unanswered messages, when my heart needed to share news, good and difficult. When all I could do was visit her grave to share the best news, and not be able to hug her anymore.

When you’re driving at the same time she was driving, on a different road in the same country, and your breath catches. What would you do? Tell those you love who are in your life, and they hold your hand, and it helps. What would I do if this was my last Friday? Enjoy it with my family, as much as I can.

When Pesach got turned upside-down three years ago, with the loss of three beautiful neshamot, I thought that was it, that was the worst. I couldn’t even imagine that exactly six months later on the English date of the attack that took two wonderful girls and left Lucy in a coma from which she wouldn’t wake up, we, as a country, as a people, would be attacked and hurt so deeply it was unspeakable. I couldn’t have foreseen how a people divided just a day before would come together, our unmatching pieces glued back together by yet another Vehi she-amda- because in every generation, they try to destroy us. But us Israelis, us Jews? We are stronger than that. We are stronger than all the haters and better than all the brainwashed and all those who don’t understand that we, the Jews, love life. When we get hit, we may fold over, but we don’t fold our hands and walk away. We don’t go down. We get back up, we put ourselves together. We stand up to every challenge, and hold each other up.

Two and a half years after that absolute nightmare began, we got back Ran Gvilli. First in, last out. We breathed, or we thought we could. We didn’t forget Those we lost, we never stopped thinking,  in all that time, about Those we were missing. But we somehow thought ah, we can finally start to breathe and rebuild again.

But no, this world is upside-down and makes no sense. In Israel, an upside-down coffee is a cappuccino, so we know that things getting turned around aren’t all bad. The month before Pesach we even celebrate this idea – the decree that would have allowed all of our people to be killed was overturned. Achashverosh said that he couldn’t rescind his rule, but now, we were allowed to fight back. Well, that’s all the permission we need. 

Unlike all tragedies and atrocities perpetrated on our people through thousands of years away from our land, all the wars since 1948 have been upside-down. They attacked, we fought back, we won, let’s eat. It’s a joke we make about what is pretty much the basis for all our holidays, but as I read in Rabbi Jonathan Sacks’ z”l haggadah, there is truth in jokes. And here, the truth is, it’s not getting attacked that we focus on, it’s the fighting back, winning, and getting back to life- eating to gain strength to go on and keep living. We don’t sit in the dark, like the older Jewish lady in the joke, we get up and turn on the light.

We get out of the shower erev chag and run to the safe room, and it doesn’t matter if we’re in a robe- what happens in the safe room stays in the safe room. We finish saying sefirat haomer in shul at the end of chag, get an alert, and walk calmly to the safe room all together. We go through some unbelievable, horrific events, and get up and write songs like Eden Golan and Bar Refaeli and many others. We play “Latzet medikaon”- to get out of depression –  on an endless loop for all those who have to worry from their safe rooms while their husbands, brothers, fiances and babies go to fight the terror. We go to work or work from home, we go out and walk our dogs (as an excuse to get out of the house), and we go on. We write songs about how everyone has to stop life in the middle to go fight, and we do because we are all Gibor Al- superheroes – with uniforms in our closets.

We light candles for those who are gone, and cry, and write or hold someone’s hand. We get together and sing songs with tissues filling our pockets. We use our memories as a comfort to hear that last sigh that so used to annoy us, the hug that we just want to feel once more.

We are, at heart, a nation with hope. This song speaks to me, especially now, as I go to be with those I love. Nigmar by Ilan Amedi 

And who knows? As it started, maybe it will all end tomorrow. After all, stranger things have happened.

L’ilui nishamot Leah bat Refael Hacohen, Maia Esther bat Aryeh Mordechai, Rina Miriam bat Aryeh Mordechai, and so so many who we have lost. 

© The Times of Israel (Blogs)