I have cried so many more tears than I have put words to paper in the past two years.

Where is my voice?

The letters have been replaced by wet, silent tears; the words replaced by sobs.

Sometimes, particularly when I am at shul silently crying, I wonder how we are all standing; how we are not all awash in tears each day.

I wonder why I am still crying, and others are not.

I wonder how it will ever stop.

 

My writing has been turned to tears for so many reasons, not the least of which is the privacy of my children.

There is so much I cannot say about what I see them doing; about what is being asked of them again and again and again.

There is so much I cannot say about my worries and fears for them, because I don’t want them to read the words; I don’t want them to enter battle knowing the weight of their actions on my heart.

But I’m sure they do, already.

 

Today, as we prepare to enter a new year, I am trying not to be awash in a sea of worry; in a sea of depression and fear and hopelessness.

As I spoke to my son in full combat gear yesterday, standing in a bombed-out house with no electricity or water, I had many hopes and dreams I wanted to convey to him. But I knew they would all bring me to tears, and perhaps touch him too deeply. We spoke, instead, of the mundane, of Rosh Hashana preparations and brotherly activities.

Now that the conversation is part of yesterday’s tears, I am ready, perhaps, to put those hopes, dreams and visions to paper.

 

As the new year starts,

I pray that my soldier sons will find love. That they will have the time and space in their lives for connection, for silly late-night conversations, afternoon walks, whispered dreams.

I pray that I may bring them to the chuppah, dancing and singing in joyous celebration. That they may be physically, spiritually and emotionally whole.

I pray that my children who are not yet in service can be children. That they can learn, hike, play and grow without more scars, more names to memorialize, more terror.

I pray that we may enter and enjoy a year of emotional growth and physical health as a family and a country. That we may have the space and time for personal development, for quiet, for ordinary days.

I pray that we may continue to remember all of those who fought for our country, all of those who died for us and all of those still recovering from injuries. That we will always carry their names with us, support their families and strengthen the country in their memory and honor. And those injured should recover and life fulfilling, healthy lives.

I pray that there should be no more names added to such a list.

I pray that those in captivity should be freed, those murdered in captivity should be remembered, and that their families should be given all the strength needed to continue.

I pray that those on our borders from Kfar Aza to Metula may return to their homes in peace and safety. That the fields and mountains north to south shall bloom again with hope, with the voices of many people, with a future filled with goodness, joy, vibrancy and health.

I pray that those within the country who don’t understand our mission, who refuse to help to protect and defend, will awaken.

And that those outside the country who don’t understand our mission, who have a skewed understanding of our history and our story, will awaken as well.

I pray, ultimately, that my tears, my constant tears, will soon be turned back into words of joy.

In the year ahead.