09 Sep STILL CRYING

Sharon and I came from different
backgrounds. I was the rabbi’s daughter,
and Sharon grew up in a traditional home.
Since her family were members of my
parents’ shul, Sharon and I became close
friends. As we got older, I shared with her
the Torah knowledge I learned in TAG, and
she clued me in to the goings-on in
Lawrence High.
Many a Shabbos afternoon, Sharon would
spend time in our home, becoming part of
our family. To my mother a”h, she was Sara
Leah, a reminder to Sharon as to who she
was. And, with deep admiration, Sharon
would call my mother “Big R” (for
Rebbetzin).
Time passed. When Sharon was up to
shidduchim, my mother was there with help
and guidance. It didn’t take long for Sharon
to meet her chosson, Izzy. They shared a
common love for Eretz Yisroel, and planned
aliyah. It was with great hopes and dreams
that they made the move with their then
toddler and newborn sons.
The years passed. Boruch HaShem, their

family grew.
Then came October 7 — a date etched in
the heart of every Israeli, every Jew. A day
that would change life for Sharon and her
family forever.
Sharon’s son, Meir Chaim, a reservist,
answered the call to be there for his people,
his country. Meir Chaim was in a tank when
it experienced a direct hit. In the aftermath,
Sharon poured her pain into words,
publishing an op-ed in The Jerusalem Post
that brought me—and many others—to
tears. It is the story of a mother’s pain.
I am sharing excerpts of Sharon’s article
“Our soldiers are dying off the battlefield”:
“My son has no mirrors in his house. He
smashed them all. His wife has only a few
slivers of her grandmother’s treasured
china. That, too, he shattered.
My granddaughters don’t know if they will
walk into the living room and find their
loving Abba – a man who cried at National
Geographic documentaries – or a violent
stranger, who flings things across the room,
to defend himself from an enemy who isn’t
there.

The warrior who defended the
nation for twenty-five years now
times his supermarket trips for ten
minutes before closing, when it’s
emptiest. The same man who once
searched deserts and cities for
missing persons with his rescue
dog, sometimes doesn’t leave his
house at all.
Since 2001, my son has served in
miluim (reserve duty), leading
dangerous missions as an officer.
He injured his knees, his hearing,
his right shoulder, his right hip –
and now, his peace of mind. His
soul.
This war has been cataclysmic. We count
our dead and wounded, but we too often
overlook the ones still suffering in silence.
For veterans, their battle didn’t end with
demobilization. They are constantly on
alert, for sudden movement, for noise, for
threats that don’t exist.
PTSD (post-traumatic stress disorder) is not
a weakness or mental illness. It’s a brain
injury caused by trauma, damaging the
mechanism that tells the brain what is
dangerous and what isn’t. For PTSD
sufferers, their minds are doing exactly
what they were trained to do: survive. But
now, in civilian life, that same mechanism
betrays them.”
Sharon’s pain is the pain of so many
mothers, fathers, sons and daughters. The
pain of husbands, wives and friends.
We are almost two full years into this war.
So many lives lost. Hostages that have not
yet come home. For them and their
families, life will never be the same.
In the Torah, Rosh HaShanah is called
Yom Teruah, a day of sounding the shofar.
Targum (Vayikra 23:24) translates teruah
as “yevava – a moan, a wail. The Talmud
(Rosh HaShanah 33b) teaches that the
wail of the shofar is like the sobbing of a
mother.
A mother’s cry. The Hebrew for cry is
bechi. The numerical value of bechi is 32
(beis=2, chof=20, yud=10), the same
value as lev, a heart (lamed=30, beis=2).
For real tears emanate from the heart. The
shofar’s wail is our heart, crying out to
HaShem – Tatty, Abba, Daddy, I’m
hurting, I’m in pain, HELP!
The Rosh HaShanah Torah and Haftora
readings also speak of cries to HaShem.
On the first day, we read that HaShem
answered Sora’s prayers, cries from the
heart, for a child. In the Haftora of the
same day, we read of Chana, who cried out
for a child. On the second day of Rosh
HaShanah, the Haftora reading tells of

Rochel me’vakeh al bo’neh’hah, Rochel
crying for the pain of her children, for Am
Yisroel. Rochel is Mama Rochel, a mother
to us all. Our anguish is her anguish. In the
heavens above, Rochel is still crying for her
children.
But her tears are not in vain. HaShem
comforts her by saying “Min’ee kolech
mi’bechi, v’eiy’nayich mi’dimah, Restrain
your voice from weeping and your eyes
from tears, ki yesh sachar lif’u’lasech, for
there is a reward for your accomplishments.”
(Yirmiyahu 31:16) There is hope for the
future.
This year, as the shofar is sounded, close
your eyes and cry along with it. Let its wail
pierce your heart. And daven. Daven for
yourself, for your family, for Am Yisroel.
Have in mind all those undergoing
challenges and difficulties.
R’ Shimshon Deutscher shared a beautiful
thought with me. The oncoming year, 5786,
in Hebrew is spelled tuff-shin-pey-vav. If
we rearrange the letters, it forms the word
shutaf (shin-vav-tuff-pey), meaning a
partner. This Rosh HaShanah, let’s turn to
HaShem, and ask Him to partner with us.
HaShem, we cry out to You and we ask You
to help us get through this difficult time.
May all our tefillos be answered l’tova.
May the wails of the shofar, accompanied
by the cries from our heart pierce the
heavens above.