Losing Our Brothers
It's 7:30 a.m. and I'm waking with the hopes that yesterday was just a bad dream. I sit down at my computer and check the news as I do every morning - but the headlines haven't changed. My friend is still dead - killed fighting for our country in South Lebanon.
Michael Levine was like a little brother to me - a very unique, courageous, beautiful, and special friend. We met when I first arrived in Israel, almost two years ago, and bonded very quickly. It was a very deep soul connection, one that built a sibling-type friendship based on an open door and an open ear. And as most new Olim know, your friends quickly become a part of your family when you're so far away from home. Mike (or Mikey) as I called him, was part of mine.
Today, on Tisha B'Av, as I prepare for his funeral, it is no struggle to mourn.
Last night, in my fog-induced state, I made my way to the Kotel. Thousands of people were there and all were in a state of mourning. As I sat down in front of the Kotel for the first time since I'd received the news, I brought out my book of Tehillim. The tears flowed so quickly though, that I wasn't even able to open it.
As I sat there on the ground, barefoot (since I'd forgotten to change out of my leather shoes), crying with all my heart and soul, I cried myself into the reality that my dear friend was gone. And as I cried so freely, so openly amidst the mourners, I felt comforted being surrounded by so many people that were mourning too. But, I must confess, there were moments when I'd take pause, or notice others watching my display of grief - and I felt uncomfortable. I was embarrased to think that they might believe I was crying so hard for our Beit HaMikdash - I mean, I'm not that frum. In those moments of pause, my first inclination was to tell people, "I'm not crying for the Temple, I'm crying for Mikey." But for some reason, I never said a word, and continued my mourning.
They say that when you save one life, you save a universe. I'm assuming it's the same in reverse. So as I sat there grieving for my dear sweet "little brother", I realized I was also crying for the Temple, for our people, for the deepest destruction possible. A universe was destroyed yesterday, and many more before it - too many. Our children, our brothers, our soldiers, our family are dying day by day. Universes upon universes are being destroyed every moment. The devastation, the destruction, doesn't have to lie in the rubble anymore, because it lives in the hearts of those that still love our fallen brothers and sisters. When will it be enough? When will we learn? When will it stop?
When will we all start crying?
Michael Levine was like a little brother to me - a very unique, courageous, beautiful, and special friend. We met when I first arrived in Israel, almost two years ago, and bonded very quickly. It was a very deep soul connection, one that built a sibling-type friendship based on an open door and an open ear. And as most new Olim know, your friends quickly become a part of your family when you're so far away from home. Mike (or Mikey) as I called him, was part of mine.
Today, on Tisha B'Av, as I prepare for his funeral, it is no struggle to mourn.
Last night, in my fog-induced state, I made my way to the Kotel. Thousands of people were there and all were in a state of mourning. As I sat down in front of the Kotel for the first time since I'd received the news, I brought out my book of Tehillim. The tears flowed so quickly though, that I wasn't even able to open it.
As I sat there on the ground, barefoot (since I'd forgotten to change out of my leather shoes), crying with all my heart and soul, I cried myself into the reality that my dear friend was gone. And as I cried so freely, so openly amidst the mourners, I felt comforted being surrounded by so many people that were mourning too. But, I must confess, there were moments when I'd take pause, or notice others watching my display of grief - and I felt uncomfortable. I was embarrased to think that they might believe I was crying so hard for our Beit HaMikdash - I mean, I'm not that frum. In those moments of pause, my first inclination was to tell people, "I'm not crying for the Temple, I'm crying for Mikey." But for some reason, I never said a word, and continued my mourning.
They say that when you save one life, you save a universe. I'm assuming it's the same in reverse. So as I sat there grieving for my dear sweet "little brother", I realized I was also crying for the Temple, for our people, for the deepest destruction possible. A universe was destroyed yesterday, and many more before it - too many. Our children, our brothers, our soldiers, our family are dying day by day. Universes upon universes are being destroyed every moment. The devastation, the destruction, doesn't have to lie in the rubble anymore, because it lives in the hearts of those that still love our fallen brothers and sisters. When will it be enough? When will we learn? When will it stop?
When will we all start crying?
posted by Rachel Tova | 8/03/2006 07:36:00 AM
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