Now what??

I know we’re all being told to be gentle with ourselves, to return slowly to routine. But what if that’s not the point at all?

You and I, and all of Am Yisrael, witnessed miracles during those twelve days of war. The entire world saw it. We’ve seen the numbers; they make no sense. The enemy we’ve dreaded for decades, with an arsenal nearly the size of our entire country, could have crushed us in an instant.

Our lives were upended. Schools shut down. Travel was a mess. We huddled in safe rooms. Plans changed without warning. But is that it?

It feels like a woman who went through a long, difficult, high-risk pregnancy. There were many scares, moments when the future was uncertain. Procedures, experts, second opinions. Prayers whispered in the night; fears held close to the heart. And then, with tremendous siyata dishmaya, a baby is born. What happens next?

If her focus is only on getting back to her routine, she misses the point! She now holds a long-awaited soul in her arms. She didn’t go through all that just to return to normal. She went through it to become something else. To become a mother. To love, to grow, to care.

Who gets married and goes home without the bride?

Who wins the lottery stresses about making it back to work Monday morning?

I hope I don't.

The whole point isn’t to go back. It’s to live differently because of what has changed.

We each had moments of awe and wonder during this war. Moments of breath-stopping gratitude. Moments of depth, of connection. Moments of family, with all that it means. Of remembering our priorities and our values. Of remembering ourselves. Our preciousness to Hashem. A sense of being seen, held in the spotlight before the eyes of the world, as they watched and saw how beloved we are to the Creator and Master of the Universe.

I stood on the porch with my family. The sirens weren’t in our area. We watched — literally — many millions of dollars explode in the dark valley between Tzfat and Tiveria, lighting up the Shabbos night sky. The question is being debated, heavy in the air overhead: Do we deserve to exist? To breathe, live, and grow? To raise children, and precious grandchildren, in our land? And with each momentous explosion, the answer reverberated. Yes. They are Mine. YES! They will live. YES! I will show the world and them, how much I love them. No matter what.

My heart swelled. My eyes dripped. My Father loves me and desires my safety and wellbeing. Od Avinu Chai. Our Father. It’s personal. Those millions exploded overhead, and not on our homes, for me. For mine. For us.

We gave birth, not to a child, but to a new awareness. To clarity. To connection. To our own preciousness.

Let’s not trade revelation for routine.

Pause. Take a moment.

What were your moments of awe? Of new understanding? Of protection? Of profound appreciation?

Are you letting it land?

Are you taking it in?

Your job and your travel and your meetings are important.But would it hurt to pause a little longer?

Write a song. A poem. A letter. Draw something. Meditate. Sing. Whisper a prayer.

Let the world rush. But you — hold the baby. She is the part of you that remembered what matters. She is wonder, and she needs your care, to be nourished.

Not to go back.

But to grow forward.