Small Miracles
| November 21, 2023“This is why I joined the army. This is why we went through all of those miluim over the years”
It’s a miracle the hamster died.
I’d gotten used to Og (short for the Hebrew oger and ironically a giant’s name for a tiny rodent). The brown ball of fur with a black stripe down his back slept most of the day in the corner of his little cage, half-buried in wood shavings. He practiced acrobatics when he smelled food coming, climbing to the ceiling of his cage, swinging from one paw, and the sudden whir of his plastic wheel would interrupt the late-night conversations that my husband and I waited for all day, making us both laugh.
Now, after bedtime, the house is silent, except for the hum of distant warplanes and occasional dull booms.
In the early afternoon of Simchas Torah, my husband switched his Shabbos clothes for army green. He laced up his boots while I rocked our six-week-old in the corner of the bedroom. “This is why I joined the army.” He looked up at me and smiled. “This is why we went through all of those miluim over the years.” He’s right. I have also been slowly readying myself for this war for the last 15 years. Or rather, Hashem has been preparing me.
Fifteen years ago, three months after our oldest child was born, my husband enlisted in the IDF for six months. He was gone every week from early Sunday morning until late Friday morning. It was stressful and lonely, but I knew it would end. I counted down the months, the weeks, the days, until his training would be over and life could go back to normal.
Since then, we have done reserve duty for about one week each year. By “we,” I mean my husband has spent a few days training, making sure his skills are up to date — just in case they’re needed if war breaks out — or guarding a checkpoint, while I flexed my independence muscles. Sure, I can solo parent, take out the garbage, and clean for Pesach by myself. (Somehow, reserve duty always seems to fall out when the kids are home, whether Nissan or Chanukah or August.)
When the coronavirus hit, we all learned how to flip quickly into emergency mode. Zoom school was created. Six kids scared, confused, and home all day for an indefinite amount of time? Did that. Abba sick and quarantined in our bedroom while I slept on the couch? Did that, too.
Last Chanukah, for the first time ever, my husband was called up for three weeks of miluim. The kids and I (who all took turns being sick in addition to being on school vacation) grumbled a little, baked a lot of doughnuts, and sang and pulled through. Then there was another week of miluim between Purim and Pesach. And then a surprise call-up drill for two days in May. Before Succos, when the message about another two-day miluim in November arrived, we were all baffled. Why more? Now I know that last year’s challenging schedule of frequent miluim was a gift from Above to prepare us for this war.
I gave birth in early Elul, nearly a week before my due date. At the time, I thought I would have liked a few more days to nest. But Hashem knew that I was ready enough, and more than a fuller freezer, I needed to rest and recover. I regained my strength more quickly than usual after birth, and when my husband left, I was six weeks postpartum, not five.
When Og died on Chol Hamoed Succos, we didn’t understand it. There had been no signs of imminent death; he’d looked fine the day before. Our family said farewell to our furry friend, and my husband dealt with disposal — I don’t do dead animals. Now I see the miracle. My husband is on the front, and I’m home taking care of eight kids — but not eight kids and a hamster.
Thank You for small miracles.
(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 869)
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