Israel's Quiet Grief

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 of grief at the funeral. They were loud and visceral. She did not care. She held in her hand a flower that Ori had given her the night before.

I have written about Ori before. But grief is not an article that reaches its final paragraph. The story never ends. It moves into the empty chair at the holiday table. It enters a father’s dreams. It waits inside every celebration, not to destroy the joy, but to remind us of the joy that should have been.

Today, two years later, Abigail is getting married.

Ori’s father has been my friend for 50 years. He told me last night that the bride’s family asked him to stand beneath the chuppah and recite one of the blessings. After thinking it over with his wife, he agreed.

Think about what that means.

Had this not been Israel, had there been no Hamas, Ori’s father would still have stood beneath Abigail’s wedding canopy. But he would not have stood there to bless her marriage to another man. He would have stood beside his son. He would have watched Ori place a ring on Abigail’s finger. He would have heard him say the words, “Behold, you are consecrated to me.” He would have watched a young couple step into the life that was stolen from them before it began.

Instead, he will stand beneath that canopy and bless Abigail as she begins a different life.

Please do not call this resilience. Over the last three years, we have worn that word smooth. We use it to describe people returning home after a missile attack, parents sending children back to school, soldiers returning to battle after burying friends. Israeli resilience sounds almost natural, as if the human heart were designed to absorb the unbearable and quietly regain its shape.

There is nothing natural about this.

For Ori’s father to stand beneath that canopy is an act of supernatural strength. It is to look directly at an absence that has no bottom and still choose love. It is to refuse to allow grief to become bitterness. It is to bless a future that cannot include his son. There are military decorations for courage under fire. There is no medal for this kind of courage.

Last night, I dreamt about Ori for the first time since he was killed. In my dream, I was preparing an invitation to his wedding on my computer. For some reason, the invitation contained not his name but the name of God. When Ori approached, I quickly closed the screen. I wanted the invitation to be a surprise.

Then I woke up.

The man Abigail is marrying is named Maor. In Hebrew, both Maor and Ori grow from the same word: “or”, meaning light. I do not know what conclusions should be drawn from names or dreams. I know only that one light was extinguished, another light is entering Abigail’s life, and Ori’s father will stand between them beneath the canopy.

This is Israel. Not the Israel of maps, elections, arguments, or headlines. This is the Israel of a bereaved father summoning the strength to say a blessing. This is the Israel that Hamas cannot understand and will never defeat. Our enemies worship death. We bury our dead, we carry them with us, and then, somehow, with tears still wet on our faces, we bless life.

These are the Jewish people. I am proud to be one of them. Today, I am humbled by them.

Good Things,

Ari Sacher