Crossing the Yarden

By Yarden Frankl

Three-Thirty in the Morning, Rosh Hashanah

I am a strong believer that at three-thirty in the morning, any morning, the best place to be is in bed, sound asleep. The thick Neve Daniel fog rolls in, and the year round cool breeze silently brushes the roofs of the houses. The normal sounds of construction, children playing, cars and busses driving by have been replaced by the soft chirping of insects.

The warm conversations with friends over Rosh Hashanah dinner and a Shalom Zachor later that night ended, and I got into the security truck to do an early morning Shmirah patrol. From three-thirty in the morning until six, we drove around while it seemed the world around us slept peacefully.

Of course, not everyone was really sleeping. We drove by the house where hours earlier we had joined friends in congratulating a neighbor on the birth of a new son, their fifth boy. I have no doubt that this new life was keeping some people awake at three-thirty in the morning. But that's fine. I would much rather be holding a warm, newborn baby at this hour than a cold, steel rifle.

We drove round the corner and passed another friend's house. Their fourth child, who would be born a few days later, was probably keeping his mom awake at three-thirty. I know that she was hoping to deliver already, but once again – losing sleep over new life is a joyful pain.

There are others around our blessed nation who are not so fortunate. Perhaps many of the soldiers wounded in the recent war were having a hard time sleeping in their hospital beds. Many wondering how their lives would be changed, some missing limbs, many missing friends.

We unfortunately know that many of our enemies are not sleeping at three-thirty either. Yes, even without top secret intelligent reports, we know that many are building bunkers in Lebanon and hideous weapons in Iran. We have been forced to accept the fact that to many, the life of a single Jew, let alone a Jewish nation, is unacceptable.

They call it a religion. They call it faith. They call it worship. They call upon a G-d of hatred and evil. They kill and say "G-d be praised." Give me a break. Anyone who can look at a newborn baby with eyes of hate has no G-d. That is not faith. That is garbage.

As dawn broke, I walked into one of the early minyanim, laid the gun against the wall, put on my talit and joined the group in prayer.

"Please, G-d. We want life. We want a year of life, of health, of work, of peace. We want to do your will. Excuse us our transgressions, we are trying, but we often need your help."

The shofar cries out from the fog of Neve Daniel to the Old City of Jerusalem. From the ancient tombs in Hevron to the mountain peaks of the Golan Heights. In New York, Johannesburg, Toronto, and Potomac, Maryland. All over the world, the Jewish people stand and hear the cry of the shofar, a gut wrenching cry of our faith and desire for life. Here in the hills of Judea, when you need to stand guard at 3:30 in the morning because your enemies are just a few hills over, you need this faith to survive.

And after the final shofar blasts, a last Kaddish. Even those who have every right to be angry at G-d because they have suffered a loss too painful for words continue to call for G-d's name to be praised over and over and over again.

That is faith.

Shabbat Shalom and Chag Sameach from our blessed nation.

© 2006 Yarden Frankl