As vulnerable as we feel, we are also that much closer to our Father’s embrace
It’s a slightly chilly Wednesday morning — the kind where you’re not quite sure whether to take a jacket, because the sun is warm and generous but big patches of clouds cover swaths of the city — and Yerushalayim is holding her breath.
This morning two nail-packed bombs went off at a pair of the city’s busiest bus stops, diabolically synchronized for maximum casualties. If you know this city’s waking patterns, then you know that bus stops at seven a.m. are filled with people going to work (Israeli offices and clinics open early) and teens heading to school. Our enemies know this too; they live right here among us.
It’s nine forty-five and I’m standing at the Bar Ilan bus stop with my nine-year-old, who has an appointment at the eye doctor. The thing about Israelis is that much like their Sabra namesakes, they are simultaneously spiny and soft. So the shop-owners and pedestrians of the Bar Ilan intersection are going about their usual business, stocking shelves and making pizza dough and looking for bargains in the shekel store. And the bus stop is packed with people who are surely mentally replaying the morning news and scanning the area for any suspicious packages — but just as surely are waiting stolidly, determinedly, for their buses.
Still, if you listen very carefully to the usual sounds of traffic and music and conversation, you can hear it: the sound of a city subdued, paused, holding its breath. Yes, there are jobs to do, errands to run, appointments to keep. And yes, Sabras don’t allow things like bombs or murderous neighbors to disrupt their plans to go right on living. But the steely resolve is not quite as tough as it looks. We’re all waiting to hear the names of the casualties, to discover which neighborhood will be shrouded in grief, to see the faces of those who will never wait at a bus stop again. Really, everyone’s waiting to mourn.
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