At Israel’s seashore, grief and faith converge—where the roar of the sea becomes a prayer for healing, resilience, and redemption..
I stand once again at the seashore of our ancient land. It is late Friday morning, and the light of Israel—brilliant and blinding—dances upon the waves. The pale blue of the sky melts into the pale blue of the sea, deepening into that eternal hue of tekhelet, the sacred blue of the tallit, the color of holiness and eternity.
From this distance, clarity comes. Life, viewed through the shimmering horizon, reveals its essence. The roar of the waves silences the noise of grief, dulls the pain of loss, and replaces it with an almost divine serenity. Here, the ocean’s voice becomes a lullaby—of faith, of persistence, of a people who never stopped returning to these same shores.
The waves roll in and roll out again—like the rhythm of our history. Joy and sorrow arrive and depart, yet never disappear. They blend, like foam and sand, like exile and return. Gratitude mixes with pain; memory with hope.
Two years have passed since the mist descended—since vision blurred and sound became muffled, as if the sea itself had swallowed time. There is a season for everything, Ecclesiastes reminds us. A time to weep and a time to laugh. But what if the times have merged? What if grief and joy now coexist, inseparable, eternal?
Children run across the water’s edge, laughing as they chase the tide. Their joy is the song of rebirth. Their castles in the sand—the fragile dreams of our people—rise again and again, rebuilt after every storm. When the waves destroy them, we rebuild. That has always been Israel’s way.
From the sky, a warplane passes overhead—its echo reminding me that serenity here is never complete. The sea’s roar mingles with the hum of defense, faith with vigilance. Ours is a Promised Land that demands courage and devotion every day. Are we being tested? Yes—but the test itself is proof of the promise.
And through it all, an ancient truth reverberates: In every generation they rise to destroy us, but the Holy One, Blessed be He, delivers us from their hands. The ocean repeats that eternal cadence, wave after wave—Am Yisrael Chai. The people of Israel live.
Now we are in Cheshvan, the month of transcendence, when pain turns to purpose and the flood of grief gives way to redemption. The waves are rolling still, carrying the laughter of children, the memory of the fallen, the heartbeat of a nation that will not fade.
The sea, like the people of Israel, endures. Its roar proclaims eternity.
