Israel was miniscule in 1955. There was no Old City, no Kotel, no Chevron, Beit Lechem or Shechem. No Yehuda or Shomron. But the Shechinah was all over. I was intoxicated, filled with wonder, gratitude and humility at the precious gift of my year. I was (still am) in love with every inch of ground I tread.
At the end of the year, many kids left early in order to spend a few weeks in Europe. I remained until the last possible moment, unwilling to give up a single day of my precious time on holy soil. Instead of Europe, I revisited the Kivrei Tzaddikim in the north. They were no longer names in medrashim. They were now real people. I even knew where they “lived”! Until I actually walked up the steps to the plane, I kept thinking, “As long as my feet are still on the ground, I’m still connected, I’m still here!” When the plane finally took off, I cried.
It was a wonderful, glorious, inspiring year. It made Torah live and glow and infused us with enough spiritual energy to share upon our return. Times have changed since then and mores and morals are not what they once were. Perhaps we can no longer afford our kids the freedom we once had. Perhaps today we need more safeguards. Nonetheless it saddens me to think that the strength afforded by our pure temimus and healthy emunah is now no longer sufficient.
It took eight years until I returned to Eretz Yisrael, this time as a wife and mother. Every day since has been a blessing (even the “rainy” days!). As my bubby used to say, “Auf aleh Yiddishe kinder gezogt… it should happen to all Yiddishe kinder!” Soon, and in our time.
