The Three Weeks begin

The Three Weeks started early this year.

The thought hadn't really occurred to me until a friend of mine in Israel said something, but it's absolutely true.

I came in to work on Wednesday with a generally cheerful disposition, having read nothing more than that morning's free -- and outdated -- newspaper on the subway. When I walked into the office and people saw my obvious obliviousness, they told me what had happened. Obviously, I was upset. But it didn't really affect me.

This point was not lost on my friend in Israel when she called later that evening. She was concerned that I wasn't more upset. My father, after all, lives in Israel, my sister is visiting there, and all of my friends there are of army age or certainly candidates for reserve duty. Still, my mind was elsewhere -- I was speaking at an event, making last-minute arrangements. I couldn't think about it.

It wasn't until Avinu Malkenu at Minha on Thursday -- Shiv'ah-'Asar be-Tammuz -- that it hit me. As I stood in the back of my synagogue, I started reciting the verses silently. All of a sudden, I started relating everything I was saying to the situation on the ground.

Avinu malkenu, batel me'alenu kol gezerot kashot.

Avinu malkenu, batel mahshavot son'enu.

Avinu malkenu, hafer 'atzat oyvenu.

Avinu malkenu, kaleh kol tzar u-mastin me-alenu.

Avino malkenu, setom piyot mastinenu u-mekatregenu.

Avinu malkenu, kaleh dever ve-herev ve-ra'av u-shevi u-mashhit ve-'avon u-shemad mi-benei veritekha.

And so on.

I found myself thinking about the residents of the north, of the families of the dead and missing, of those whose whereabouts are yet unknown.

At the end of the tefillah, the rabbi came to the bimah and recited two chapters of Tehillim -- Psalms -- due to the current situation. As we read ch. 121, I found myself seeing more to that chapter than I ever had before.

The first verse embodies the speaker's anguish -- "I lift up my eyes unto the mountains; from whence shall my help come?" One can almost see the speaker looking anxiously towards the hills, wondering who will come to his aid.

"My help comes from Ado-nai, maker of heaven and earth," he tells himself, almost angrily. 'How could I ever have doubted Him?,' he asks himself.

The last six verses form a dialectic between personal and collective salvation. It is as if the speaker is trying to convince his audience that G-d's Providence extends to them as individuals, as well as to the entire nation of Israel

But most interesting, to me, is the progression inherent in the narrative. We see the speaker going from open anxiety to a sense of personal confidence that eventually allows him not only to seek comfort himself, but to comfort another individual ("He will not permit your foot to be moved") and, eventually, the entire Jewish people ("Behold, he who keeps Israel neither slumbers nor sleeps").

Personally, I found the recitation comforting and I saw in it a prayer.

May we draw the strength not only to comfort ourselves, but to support our brothers and sisters wherever they are and to strengthen the entire nation of Israel during this difficult time. And may we know the peace of G-d's watch over our goings and comings from now until forever.

Shabbat Shalom.