I can’t talk about it.

Not because I don’t want to but because I’m not allowed to. Not in an if-I-told-you-I’d-have-to-kill-you sort of way – I’m not privy to classified secrets. But I do live here, and when things go boom around us, unless they’re on the news (which means they were cleared by military censors), even ordinary citizens are forbidden to talk about – pardon the pun – the “where, what, and when” of what just happened.

As the old saying goes: “Loose lips sink ships.” It’s a legitimate concern. The fear is that enemies could learn where rockets landed and adjust their aim. The last thing we want is better aim next time.

It’s no secret that a direct missile strike hit Beit Shemesh and killed nine people, in what we hope will have been the deadliest incident of the war with Iran. My cousins, who live nearby, felt their house shake. My wife’s coworker, who lives even closer, heard windows shattering in the homes around her.

Other incidents have happened far too close to home, whether it be from shrapnel damage from intercepted missiles or outright hits that got through the formidable defenses that help protect us from the daily barrage hurled by our enemies.

*  *  *

A tent rose on our street, where sorrow met holiness.

      We had seen tents before – in the news, even on the streets of Ramat Beit Shemesh. There was really nothing new to see here; move on. Except….

      It’s different when it happens to someone you know.

*  *  *

Eight hundred eighty-eight was the number of soldiers who had died in the line of duty with the tragic ambush of the Netzach Yehuda soldiers in Beit Hanun, Five souls. One unspeakable day.

When the news hit…some people sighed. As they usually do.

Some people cried. Once more.

Others clicked on by, compartmentalizing their grief to preserve their sanity. Yet again.

One by one, the names and hometowns of the first four appeared in the media, and people sighed, and cried, and clicked. But when the last name was published, the community of Beit Shemesh lost its breath.  

A tent rose on our street, where sorrow met holiness.

      We had seen tents before – in the news, even on the streets of Ramat Beit Shemesh. There was really nothing new to see here; move on. Except….

      It’s different when it happens to someone you know.

*  *  *Eight hundred eighty-eight was the number of soldiers who had died in the line of duty with the tragic ambush of the Netzach Yehuda soldiers in Beit Hanun, Five souls. One unspeakable day.When the news hit…some people sighed. As they usually do.

Some people cried. Once more.

Others clicked on by, compartmentalizing their grief to preserve their sanity. Yet again.

One by one, the names and hometowns of the first four appeared in the media, and people sighed, and cried, and clicked. But when the last name was published, the community of Beit Shemesh lost its breath.  

I’m no historian, but I remembered learning something about soldiers taking over private homes for their own use. The details, however, were elusive. I guess I should have paid more attention in American history class, but thankfully, Professor Google quickly refreshed me on the particulars.

With apologies to my British daughter-in-law, it seems that 11 years before the American Revolution, the British passed the Quartering Act, which required the colonists to provide housing and provisions to the British soldiers in their towns, at their own expense.

While it’s popularly believed that this allowed soldiers to take over citizens’ homes, the Professor tells me that that’s not actually correct. However, the public did need to come up with the funds to provide for the British troops’ needs. In any case, the Third Amendment to the U.S. Constitution severely curtailed the practice of “quartering” soldiers, requiring the consent of the owners.

Enough of the history lesson. If I didn’t pay sufficient attention the first time, there’s no reason why you should have to suffer through it now.

A prayer offered without kavanah (intent) is like a body without a soul.

When the rabbis taught us that lesson, they were encouraging us that, when we recite our personal and public prayers, rather than merely reciting the words, we should garb them with our own personal meanings and thoughts. Just as our clothing choices help us stand apart, so do our contemplation and intent transform even standardized prayers into deeply personal, unique offerings.

About 17 years ago, we prepared to bid farewell to our eldest son, Avi, as he departed for his post-high school year in Israel. Little did we know that this gap year would turn into a life in the Holy Land. I have to confess that I was warned: “You spent three years in Israel after high school,” he cleverly argued, “so I get at least three years!”

Negotiations were unnecessary. My wife and I were happy to let him stay as long as he liked, and we’re even more elated that he and his family have made their lives here. 

These were the days before phones had decent cameras, so as the date of his departure drew closer, I asked a photographer friend to come to the house and take a family photo shoot. 

With a wry smile on his face, Avi said, “I get it. We’re doing this so you’ll have pictures of me, in case anything happens.” 

I was shocked. I don’t think that morbid idea was even in the back of my mind, let alone anywhere near my frontal lobe.

Off he went to Israel, followed a couple of years later by his baby brother, Arky. Both of them, as I like to put it, “forgot” to come back to the USA. Both spent a number of years in yeshiva and then did their service in the IDF. 

Countless family photos have been taken since then, and, thank G-d, the number of people in the photos has increased, as wonderful wives and adorable children have quite literally entered the picture.