The best of times and the worst of times

It was the best of times and it was the worst of times. Yesterday was both.

Yes, it is possible. It is also unlikely. But so it was.

It started for me when something woke me up about 1 a.m. I will never know what it was — an outside noise or an inner dread. But I jumped awake, as much as an old lady can jump, and immediately, as is my way, grabbed my phone. This past year has been a horrible cliffhanger for all our people as we deal with war and peace and Jew hatred and, well, there is not too much Jew love in the world these days.

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I wanted to read the latest news, to check on the matsav, the situation, in Israel and Gaza and the world at large.

Immediately I saw the horrible report about the cherished ones we knew as hostages, about the beautiful young Hersh and five of his fellow prisoners. I woke my husband, for no good reason except that I couldn’t bear to deal with it on my own. It was shattering, it was horrific, and I knew it was not a nightmare.

No. I had not been awakened by an event created by my own imagination. I would not return to sleep and wake up later to discover that all was stagnant, that this was a bad dream created and inspired by the horrors that prevail in Gaza in a war started by an evil and powerful group of monsters known as Hamas.

The news itself was unparalleled, like shards of sharp glass penetrating my body and my soul, and of all of us Jews throughout the world. I had despaired that Hersh still could have been alive, but my despair was tinged with hope, even unreality. In the initial assault on the Rave he had lost his arm. Could he have possibly remained alive without medical care, submerged in an airless tunnel, deprived of any amenities or creature comforts, with inadequate food? I thought rationally that he certainly could not still be amongst the living.

But then I would rethink. He was young and healthy. Perhaps there was an infinitesimal chance that he lived still. He, and all the others, were constantly in my thoughts and prayers. Miracles do happen! And doesn’t love conquer everything? The love of his parents was, and is, so remarkable, so powerful, and so all encompassing that surely that would count for something.

And yes. I was right. And no. I was wrong. The love, like a powerful infusion, kept him living. But then, just a few hours ago, the hatred became the victor, and the bullets did what the abysmal living conditions could not. They shot him, and his five fellow victims, to death. To call it cowardice is to vastly understate what it was. It was the Nazis and the gas chambers. It was the evil against the good. It was unforgettable, another in a long list of carnage against us and our people.

I weep for them all. I am shattered. It takes a special kind of enemy to shoot an unarmed victim. Our enemies are those special kinds of people.

For me, this is not the time to write of the inadequacies of Bibi and his followers. Suffice it to say that they have to be disarmed, disavowed, and removed from power.

But that will not return those already dead victims. They are gone But they never will be forgotten.

So what could have happened yesterday to make it the best of times? What was possible after the horror?

Yesterday, 21 days after his birth, much of it spent in the NICU at Hadassah Hospital, Ein Karem, our new great-grandson was circumcised and named at a festive gathering in a beautiful apartment overlooking the hills of Jerusalem. The mohel was his grandfather, Rabbi Mark Cooper. And in spite of the nation’s profound sorrow, this event was all that it should be, joyful, meaningful, and beautiful.

The baby will be called by his name, Nael, itself a prayer to God who gives. He is the cherished answer to a prayer for long life and sustenance, happiness, and peace. Long may he thrive.

His middle name, Be’eri, should be familiar to all. It is the name of a kibbutz in southern Israel that was overrun by Hamas terrorists on October 7. It is a place that is dear to our hearts and that must never be forgotten. As Nael’s father, our grandson Joshua, taught us: “The name Be’eri is meant to honor the loss and suffering that the kibbutz has endured, and also as a celebration of life, even in the aftermath. However, we did not want to exclusively name you after such a dark event. In Tanakh, a well, a be’er, is associated with life, with love, with courage, with trust and with a connection to the land. We hope that these attributes will guide your life.”

And so do we. Welcome, Nael Be’eri. We love you.

Rosanne Skopp of West Orange is a wife, mother of four, grandmother of 14, and great-grandmother of eight. She is a graduate of Rutgers University and a rosanne.skopp@gmail.comdual citizen of the United States and Israel. She is a lifelong blogger, writing blogs before anyone knew what a blog was! She welcomes email at