At our Rosh Hashanah table this weekend, the conversation turned to the extraordinary amount of reserve duty my sons have performed over the past three years. More than 500 days. That is not a statistic. It is birthdays missed, careers interrupted, families left waiting, and ordinary life repeatedly placed on hold. We began “reminiscing,” if that is the word, about the summer of 2021. My younger son spent a month hiding in a ditch near the Lebanese border, waiting for a Hezbo

This weekend we begin the High Holiday season, known in Judaism as the “Days of Awe”. The season opens with Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year. Unlike January 1st, which is usually celebrated by staying awake far later than one should and imbibing intoxicating beverages, Rosh Hashanah is traditionally celebrated by eating astonishing quantities of food. In North America, it is often the holiday of brisket. My family, however, has its own custom. We eat duck on the first night

Ori and Abigail met for the last time the day before he died. Ori was serving in the reserves, transporting supplies to soldiers deep inside Gaza. Abigail came to Ashkelon, near the border, to see the man she was supposed to marry. They were to be engaged shortly. There was a future waiting for them: a proposal, an invitation, a wedding canopy, a home. The next day, Ori’s convoy was ambushed. A sniper killed him along with two other reservists. I cannot forget Abigail’s cries