It wasn’t until I entered the family’s home that I began remembering the previous bris I had done for them. When the father called to ask me to be the mohel for his second son, I pretended I knew exactly who I was speaking to. He was so friendly and sure I’d remember, I didn’t want to disappoint him.
The truth is, I’ve done maybe two handfuls of britot in Tzor Hadassah, where this family lives, so I should have been able to figure it out. But even as I searched through their former paperwork, nothing jumped out at me. When I arrived at their home, it became clear to me why I had no image in my mind. This had been a Covid bris, and I’m not even sure I saw their faces the first time around.
Being in their home again brought back so many memories of the Covid era. I remembered the masks and how hard it was to sing without fogging up my glasses. The energy it took to project my voice through them was exhausting.
But it wasn’t just those annoyances that plagued us during the lockdowns. I remember what it was like to only welcome guests on Zoom. Even worse, I can remember relegating grandparents to the porch for their own safety. In those days, it felt like we’d never go back to normal. Thank G-d we finally did.
In an odd turn of events, years after the Covid protocols have become distant memories, some of those realities have returned to Israel. The war has made our lives mirror images of the lockdowns once again. Where rocket barrages are the most intense, we’ve had to limit the number of people at our semachot. And we’ve had to be ready to run for shelter at a moment’s notice. Announcements are often made before the ceremony’s commencement of where we’ll run if, G-d forbid, the circumstance arises.
Tzor Hadassah is not one of those places. Very few air raid sirens have sounded in their neighborhood since Oct. 7. We were all prepared for a break from the realities of war. And for the most part, that’s what the brit milah was.
My MO as a mohel is to arrive with ample time to set up. The last thing I want is for the family to be waiting for me to start. The father of the baby was expecting his third brother to arrive as the event’s appointed hour came and went. Whenever this happens, I do my best not to get agitated. However, that day I had a fuller schedule, so I felt a bit rushed.
Moments before the third brother arrived, the baby’s grandmother mentioned that this would be the first time the three boys would be together since the war broke out. They are all stationed in different regions of the country and have had next to no leave time.
The fact that the brothers were all given leave speaks volumes about the Jewish state. Just like the precautions Tzahal takes to protect the innocent, the family’s ability to celebrate together indicates how, unlike our enemies, we always choose life. During this time of war, the verse which stands out from the naming tefillah is “In your blood, live.”
It’s a challenge for someone like myself not to feel guilty at times like these, as I have never served in the Israeli Defense Forces. Too many of our brothers and sisters have already fallen both on Oct. 7 and in the subsequent war. But the verse from Yechezkel is telling us that as hard as it may be, we must keep living our lives and celebrating our semachot – otherwise these losses are for naught.
When the time came, the three siblings took the three major roles in the brit milah service – as the father, as the sandek, and the third held his nephew while he received his name. It would have been enough just seeing the three together. But to see them serve Hashem at this simcha, just as they do on the battlefield, protecting our homeland – who wouldn’t have waited all day?
