Two years ago, I was standing in a small vineyard in the hills of eastern Gush Etzion enjoying a beautiful pre-holiday event. We heard from the owners about the wine harvest and the incredibly industrious work a few families had accomplished with their winery.

They explained how tricky it would be with the upcoming holiday; when the grapes were ready – and they would be ready any day – the community would need to come out in force to pick and process them for the perfect wine production. We marveled at the precision involved in such an undertaking and at the inherent stress in balancing the holidays (when they wouldn’t harvest) with the needs of the vines.

Little did any of us know.

Within days of our visit, it was October 7, 2023 and those grapes, those beautiful grapes full of promise, were left to rot on the vine.

I’ve thought of those grapes often over the last two years. I’ve thought of the financial loss the community must have incurred, one of so, so many casualties of this war that was thrust upon us that day.

And here we are again. It’s almost impossible to believe that we are here – two years later.

How much more economic stress can business owners and entrepreneurs take? How much more can we ask of them?

I noticed something new on my son’s car last week. On the day he bought the car, he placed a sticker on the back bumper in memory of his dear friend, Shiloh Rauchberger. But I hadn’t noticed the other sticker on the back window in memory of one of his fellow soldiers. And it made me think, again, about the price that he’s paid since this war started as part of the young generation fighting for our existence. It made me imagine what his car would look like were he to find a clean spot and stick one sticker for each person that he has lost. His car would be rendered undrivable; his windshield covered, his back window full, his tires turning with the memory of his friends, with the fall of his classmates.

And here we are again. It’s almost impossible to believe that we are here – two years later.

How much more can these young combat soldiers take? How much more can we ask of them?

So, too, with spouses, children and parents of those serving. I’ve been asked a few times recently how I’m doing and I think I catch people off guard with my candor. I’m not ok and I’m not doing great. How could I be? Why would I be?

And here we are again. It’s almost impossible to believe that we are here – two years later.

How much more can be asked of miluyim wives holding down households for two years? How much more can be asked of anxiety-ridden parents? How much more can be asked of nervous children with parents on the front?

Most days I keep my mind occupied. I’m at work, running errands, cooking or reading. The one room that I can’t really handle remaining in for long is the family room. Our couch, the center of our home, faces the front door with its cheerful bubble-glass design. And when I sit there for too long, with the door in front of me, I find anxiety rising with the fear of that knock.

The fear of the knock keeps me moving, as if I can outrun fate, time, actions completely out of my control.

If you ask me how I’m doing and I’m honest (as I probably will be), don’t be surprised. I’m thinking about grapes left on the vine; stickers covering cars; knocks that should never come on cheerful doors. I’m thinking about things that I would never have assumed would be part of my life; but they are my entire life, right now.

And when I find the headspace to pray, a quiet moment to beseech the heavens, I hear what should be the most basic of prayers.

May our homes be places of safety and comfort.

May our people be returned.

May our wounded recover; our murdered be memorialized, cherished and remembered.

May those on the front-line return physically, emotionally and spiritually whole.

May we be able to lead our simple, productive lives as they are planned.

May there be no more stickers, no more knocks, no more dates to remember on the memorial calendars of our lives.

May our children who still possess their innocence remain children.

May the grapes be picked from the vines at the right time, the cars and walls of our lives be left without any more stickers, and the bubble design on my front door returned to looking cheerful again soon.

Amen.

 

This article first appeared on the Times of Israel.