The miracles we are living right now

The house is heavy with gratitude and heartbreak.

There are people lining up in the streets of our town, with Israeli flags and shock, to say goodbye to a son of our neighborhood who was killed in Lebanon. A young man, whose family has known too much loss, who had a whole future ahead of him.

I ask for no more sacrifices as I roll matza balls to boil, a recipe I made this morning with my mother, just like my grandmother did.

The counters are groaning with freshly prepared food, the house smells like Pesach; the sweetness of the charoset, the sting of the marror still hanging in the kitchen, delicacies carmelized and tempting.

My niece and nephew are giving me stickers and lingering under my feet asking for snacks, and my almost towering over me teenagers; decorating the beautiful Seder table with props and artwork (thank you Yael Harris Resnick Art!), and setting down my Pesach china with the gold rims.

I'm thinking about the parents whose children are on army bases tonight. Whose children are deep in the forests of Lebanon, or the wasteland of Gaza, on our borders, or in the sky- praying that they come home safely.

I don't think we need the saltwater this year, tears are abundant now- moods are stormy and strained, energy is frenetic- we had four hatraaot (warnings) this morning before 10 am- the whole house heaved to its feet and began to prepare in a hurry.

Like the days leaving Mitzrayim, we do not know what comes next- and we skitter- from recipe to recipe- moving as fast as we can, because we don't know when we will next be interrupted.

We plan our prep and meal plans like we are going into battle- and the initiative of getting ready for Pesach in the middle of a war with rockets flying at your city after every is something that sadly we have gotten used to. We've had too many holidays this way. And yet, there is still so much to celebrate, to commemorate.

We are planning a Seder half for the table and half for the shelter- like always, we have an opportunity to teach our children- lihidadita l'vincha- but tonight it's different.

We teach them more than our origin story, miracles of old, stories worth sustaining.

Tonight, as we will weave through the past and present, the mamad and the table, we have a chance to teach them how it's not just about survival.

It's about meaning-making.

Mindset.

We have to show them the miracles we are living right now.

We say Dayenu, and we taste it differently this year.

We can teach them by example- we point to the Seder plate this year and say: look at all we carry!

Look at the worry, heartbreak, heaviness, stress- call it by its name. We feel it. We live it. That is marror.

But look at the heavens; see the Iron Dome, hear the Israeli jets protecting us in the night, taste the sweetness of survival in the face of our enemies. That is Hallel.

Usually, we say that Seder night is Leil HaShimurim- the night where God protects us.

I will tell the children: We are living in a time when every night is a night when God actively intervenes on our behalf. Protects us and makes miracles for us.

Where we live in grave danger and wondrous miracles.

We live in a time where we are held by the outstretched hands of God.

That is what I will tell the children tonight as we fill our cups, retell our tales, and speak new ones for the first time; those will become a legacy for future generations.

I will carry all of this with me tonight into whatever space we are given to sit and tell our story.

With my Az Nashir Haggadah in hand, with the voices of generations behind me, with the clarity of this moment burning in front of me.

We are not only remembering redemption.

We are living through the kind of history that will one day be told.

And so we will tell it with honesty, with courage, with faith.

We are still here.

We are still building.

We are still singing.

That is our answer.

Chag kasher v’sameach.

May it be a night of protection, and the beginning of better days.