Feb 2012
I believe in the Western Wall, the rough stones that feel soft to the touch, and warm so many hearts, the vines that start at the top and fall into the cracks of the temple that once was whole.
Starting in Pre- K, I learned all about the basics of the Jewish people; the history, the culture, and the religion. The idea of it all coming to life felt out of reach. Originally, I was going to have to wait until the summer of sophomore year to visit the land I have learned about for many years. Yet I was in eighth grade when I first visited Israel with my class.
It wasn’t real to me until I boarded the El Al airplane that would bring me to the place that I had anticipated through pictures, descriptions, poems and ancestry. The trip moved fast; I constantly hiked and had fun with my classmates of nine years. The concluding days were where I would finally discover the answer to the most confusing part of Judaism to me—the Western Wall.
As I stood in front of the wall like so many had done before me, my prior confusion about why so many people cared about a single wall vanished. All around me people were dancing and singing, and as I got closer to the wall they grew blurry in my vision and eventually vanished (just used “vanished”, maybe use a different word?). All I could see was the wall that stood so tall above me. For the first time, I had no questions. My tears answered them all.
My teacher told me to choose just one rock to remember forever. They said to look at the wall standing in front of me and close my eyes. The rock you first see will be yours. My rock’s sides are straight but the middle looks like the thick white cream cheese craters of the moon.
_
I cannot say that I fully grasped the meaning of the Western Wall until I returned for a second time this summer. As my feet guided me along steps I took just two years ago, I spotted the rock that was mine. As I looked into the crevasses, my mind drew a picture of my tears that came out just two years ago. I remembered the look in my face even though I could not see myself. I remember not being able to describe my cry and not being able to identify my tears from my friends’ that I embraced with. Our warm salty tears fell onto the limestone ground beneath our feet.
At that moment, I realized we Jews have something strong that cannot break. We pour out our hearts onto paper and push the bits of our heart into the hands of our people. We trust those who stuck their prayers into the Wall, because we are all one people. We are the Western Wall.
I believe in the Western Wall.
Starting in Pre- K, I learned all about the basics of the Jewish people; the history, the culture, and the religion. The idea of it all coming to life felt out of reach. Originally, I was going to have to wait until the summer of sophomore year to visit the land I have learned about for many years. Yet I was in eighth grade when I first visited Israel with my class.
It wasn’t real to me until I boarded the El Al airplane that would bring me to the place that I had anticipated through pictures, descriptions, poems and ancestry. The trip moved fast; I constantly hiked and had fun with my classmates of nine years. The concluding days were where I would finally discover the answer to the most confusing part of Judaism to me—the Western Wall.
As I stood in front of the wall like so many had done before me, my prior confusion about why so many people cared about a single wall vanished. All around me people were dancing and singing, and as I got closer to the wall they grew blurry in my vision and eventually vanished (just used “vanished”, maybe use a different word?). All I could see was the wall that stood so tall above me. For the first time, I had no questions. My tears answered them all.
My teacher told me to choose just one rock to remember forever. They said to look at the wall standing in front of me and close my eyes. The rock you first see will be yours. My rock’s sides are straight but the middle looks like the thick white cream cheese craters of the moon.
_
I cannot say that I fully grasped the meaning of the Western Wall until I returned for a second time this summer. As my feet guided me along steps I took just two years ago, I spotted the rock that was mine. As I looked into the crevasses, my mind drew a picture of my tears that came out just two years ago. I remembered the look in my face even though I could not see myself. I remember not being able to describe my cry and not being able to identify my tears from my friends’ that I embraced with. Our warm salty tears fell onto the limestone ground beneath our feet.
At that moment, I realized we Jews have something strong that cannot break. We pour out our hearts onto paper and push the bits of our heart into the hands of our people. We trust those who stuck their prayers into the Wall, because we are all one people. We are the Western Wall.
I believe in the Western Wall.
