Coming Home

Perhaps the security guard at the airport in Philadelphia expressed it best. When he heard how long it had been since my last visit, he commented, “Man, what took you so long to go home?”

Indeed, it had been way too long.

As soon as I settled in, I set out for the Kosel, taking along a special jacket with which to tear kri’ah. I had always found a heter not to, but this time was different. I wanted to feel the Churban.

As soon as the Kosel appeared, I cried freely. Inching forward with my torn jacket, ashamed I had been away so long, I desperately yearned to feel close again. I stood there motionless. And then, I placed my trembling hands against its smooth, familiar, ancient stones. A long-lost child being welcomed by his Father. Tears blinding my vision, I poured out my heart and held on for dear life. For one timeless moment, I tasted home.

People had told me, “Everything’s changed,” that I wouldn’t recognize Eretz Yisrael. They were wrong. One place hadn’t changed at all: the Kosel Hamaaravi.