This sits at the entrance to my house. It’s next to the ever-present poyke pot, the bikes, scooters, soccer balls, and abandoned flower pots. Mingled among all of that activity sits a piece of a rocket, shot from Gaza on October 8, 2023 and intended to kill my 17 year old son.

And it nearly did.

They were in Sderot for Simchat Torah, 80 high school boys intending to bring joy and energy to the community. They wanted to show love and strength to the residents and did so, as they recounted much later, with many older people and other members of the community.

And then, at 6:29 am on October 7, 2023 the first sirens rang out and rockets began to fall. The 80 students found themselves in a bomb shelter intended for about 15. Soon, a few local couples took in groups of kids, and my son endured over 30 hours in the bomb shelter for 15 with about 50 kids. No food, no water, no bathroom. There were constant sirens, constant rockets falling, and the constant sound of gun fighting outside. Eventually, they were protected by a number of soldiers and they listened throughout the night and into the next day as the soldiers exited the shelter to battle terrorists. Each time they held their breath, hoping the soldiers would return and that no terrorists would descend on their location.

At some point mid-day on October 8^th, they were told by the army that the roads were clear enough for them to move. They loaded the boys into jam-packed cars and told them to drive like hell out of the area. And after everything they had already experienced – this was the moment that my son said he was the closest to losing his life.

As they drove out of Sderot, the bombs were still falling; the never-ending bombs. Twice they reported that when they stopped the car and ran for cover – they missed being hit by seconds. It was after one of these near-misses that my son scooped the still-hot bomb and threw it into the car with him.

When he burst through our door in the afternoon on October 8^th, 2023 after over 30 hours completely out of contact – he had the bomb in his hands and more questions than any 17 year old should ever have to ask.

And since that day, the bomb has sat by our front door. At some point, the Israeli flag found its way there to curl up beside the bomb. And every time that I enter or leave the house, I know it’s there, reminding me of the miracle we experienced that day.

Reminding me of the miracles that so many experienced that day and in the year of days we’ve had since then.

But also reminding me of the miracles so many others did not experience that day or in the year of days that we’ve had since then.

Reminding me, also, of the strength of spirit of one 17 year old and all of his friends.

And today, I will see that rocket out of the corner of my eye as I hug my son, on his way to Sderot, where he will meet up with all of the friends from last year to dance with those who want to dance and to cry with those who need to, together.