I was the only one in this crowd whose tefillos don’t make it onto the list

“Don’t tell Mommy.”

No better way to get my attention, of course.

I don’t know how to raise one eyebrow, so I settled for, “What shouldn’t you tell me?” when I rounded the hallway to where my son was standing with his siblings.

“Mommy, everything is fine. Don’t worry. I’m fine, see?”

Shlomo’s been in and out of Gaza as an IDF soldier, and he’s told some hair-raising stories; if there was a story he thought was too scary to share, did I really want to hear it? (Why he thought something too unnerving for me would be okay to share with his teenage siblings is a discussion for another time.)

He turned his phone to face me. “Hamas posted this.”

It was a shot of four uniformed IDF soldiers in — judging by the buildings around them — Gaza. A red triangle over the head of each soldier highlighted that they had been targets.

“This is Shlomo.” My daughter helpfully pointed to a soldier standing against a wall. For reasons known only to those murderers and Hashem, they photographed the soldiers but did not kill them. Perhaps there was no sniper who could strike at that distance. Maybe their cameras have a range greater than their weapons. Whatever the reason, the fact that my son was living and breathing in front of my eyes was nothing short of a miracle.

Another reason to be grateful, to celebrate, to thank Hashem. I could count all the ways my boys are different from the image I dreamed of, are different from their former peers in yeshivah — or I can count my blessings.
When you’re dealing with a nisayon long enough, you know that self-pity is something to be avoided at all costs. My older boys are all out of the box in some way or another, but except for Shlomo, they can all be described as shomer Torah u’mitzvos. Appreciate what you have, and don’t let your mind wander to what you don’t. That’s my rule.

Then I found myself at the wedding of a close friend’s son. Dozens of guests stood around the chuppah, eyes closed in prayer. Each one held a paper the family had distributed — on it was a list of names of people in need of a yeshuah. Shidduchim, zera shel kayama, refuah sheleimah.

I looked at the chassan, at his brothers lined up next to the chuppah, looking so sweet and eidel in their black hats, and a wave of self-pity headed straight for me. Will I ever make a wedding like this? Will any of my boys attract such a frum-looking crowd? Will their kallahs be so tzanuah?

I looked at the paper in my hand and then I looked around. The friend on my right had a daughter married for four years and still waiting for a baby. On my left was a friend whose sister is 43 years old and not yet married. These are very painful nisyonos. Excruciating nisyonos. But normal. It’s normal to daven for shidduchim and children; here in my hand was a whole list of people looking for those very same yeshuos.

It was a small wedding, and I knew mostly everyone there. I looked around. Some guests were dealing with nisyonos I knew about, and some were dealing with things I could never know about. Everyone had something; no one is exempt from suffering. But as the wave pulled me down, down, down, drowning me in its depths, I thought about how I was the only one in this crowd whose tefillos don’t make it onto the list. I am the only one here begging Hashem not to let Hamas kill my son.

And then, in one moment, as fast as it had sucked me in, the wave spat me out onto the shore and I found myself on dry land, heaving, gasping  in huge gulps of fresh air. Because in that moment I remembered the picture Hamas had posted of my son, and I realized: I may be the only one in the entire hall davening for Hashem to protect my child from Hamas—

But I was also the only one there who knew for sure that He had answered.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 968)