B’sha’ah tovah: When life and war collide in Israel

This past month, my wife and I traveled to Israel to help our daughter as she prepared to give birth to our second grandchild. What we expected to be a joyful four-week visit turned into an extended, unforgettable experience — a tumultuous and transformative time filled with beauty, tension, and resilience.

The Hebrew phrase b’sha’ah tovah — “in a good hour” — is the traditional way to bless someone expecting a child. It expresses the hope that all will go smoothly, safely, and at the right time. But for us, b’sha’ah tovah took on a deeper, layered meaning as our personal family moment unfolded against the backdrop of geopolitical turmoil.

Our daughter, Esther, was due in early June. As each day passed, we were already on high alert, on call to help care for our 1 1/2-year-old grandson, Yitzhak Yosef, so we never ventured too far from the center of Jerusalem. On Thursday evening, June 12, contractions began. We rushed to their home in Givat Hamivtar as they rushed to the close-by hospital, Hadassah Mount Scopus. By 1:30 a.m., our daughter and son-in-law returned. It was a false alarm, not yet her “b’sha’ah tovah.”

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Then, just two hours later, we were jolted awake by air raid sirens. Israel’s Operation Rising Lion — a preemptive strike against Iran’s nuclear and military sites — had begun.

Sleep eluded me, so I channeled my nervous energy into understanding all I could — downloading apps, joining WhatsApp groups, and refreshing news sites in search of clarity and connection. Anticipating Iran’s response, the Home Front Command moved the country from “full activity” to “essential activity,” suspending schools, public gatherings, most office work — even synagogue services.

What followed were 12 extraordinary days. We cared for our toddler grandson while keeping an eye on alert apps and safety maps. We took buses and taxis past shuttered restaurants, moved quickly through empty streets, and located protected spaces just in case. Even a Friday morning hair appointment came with its own sense of risk.

A few days later, in the midst of war — back at Hadassah Hospital, with its makeshift maternity ward now relocated safely underground — our granddaughter, Chaya Sarah, was born. That same evening, Esther came home, radiant and strong, arms cradling her newborn daughter. I felt a surge of emotion I can barely describe as we marveled at the symbolism: birth amid bombs, renewal in the face of uncertainty.

Throughout those days, we participated and admired how Israeli society navigated immense stress with remarkable composure. Iran launched more than 550 ballistic missiles and 1,000 drones at Israel during the 12-day conflict. The alert systems worked overtime, issuing over 21,000. Construction crews kept working — deemed “essential” under emergency regulations. Babies were born in record numbers.  Shops reopened.

As the U.S. Embassy encouraged American citizens to register for possible evacuation, we filled out our forms and awaited updates. The messages were sobering: no commercial flights, uncertain destinations, limited advance warning. We packed up and readied ourselves, just in case. When I described our situation to a close friend in Jerusalem, he wrote, “b’sha’ah tovah” — it should happen at the right time. Ultimately, we secured seats on a flight to Rome, only one week later than our original plan. We left tired, grateful, and deeply moved.

As someone fully committed to Jewish communal life and identity, I think often about the transmission of values — identity, resilience, joy — from one generation to the next. In Israel, I saw those values not as theory, but as daily practice. A people that chooses life, again and again, no matter the darkness.

Our granddaughter’s name, Chaya Sarah, honors my late mother, z”l. Her birth in that moment — amid sirens and uncertainty — was more than a family milestone. It was a defiant affirmation of hope.

We found new meaning in b’sha’ah tovah. Not just a blessing for healthy birth, but a spiritual lens through which to understand life’s unpredictable timing. Not everything happens when we expect it. But when it does, it happens for a reason, and — God willing — at the right hour.

As we pray for calmer days and lasting peace, may all of our moments — of birth, of connection, of courage — come b’sha’ah tovah. And may the children born into this complex chapter of Jewish history grow to illuminate it with wisdom, purpose, and light.

Jeremy J. Fingerman of Fort Lee recently concluded a 15-year tenure as CEO of Foundation for Jewish Camp and now serves as FJC’s senior advisor.