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My daughter finished her year of seminary this week and was supposed to fly back on Tuesday and spend a few days at home before jetting off to Texas to run a Chabad day camp there.

She’d said her goodbyes, packed her bags, and was excited to come home, eat her favorite foods, hang out with her family, and adjust to being back stateside.

But with Israel launching Operation Rising Lions to save itself from a nuclear attack, all flights in and out of the country have been canceled.

So now, instead of preparing for the camp in Texas that begins on Sunday, my daughter is stuck. Grounded in the Holy Land.

Nearly every hour, she calls me with a fresh escape plan. She’s like a one-woman Mossad escape unit.

“Tatty! What if I take a boat to Cyprus?”
“Maybe I’ll cross into Egypt and fly out from there?”
“I heard people are flying from Amman, Jordan!”
“Tatty, I found a guy who knows a guy who knows a camel … ”

And honestly, I get it. She has my DNA. I also wouldn’t be able to sit still. I’d be on full-on shpilkes, pacing up and down the hallway, trying to book flights, buses, camels … whatever it takes.

And she’s not alone.

Tens of thousands of people are stuck in both directions. While thousands are trying to leave Israel, thousands more are trying to enter. There’s something uniquely Jewish about the coordinated chaos going on!

But at moments like these, when WhatsApp groups are exploding with flight hacks, border updates, “Someone heard from a cousin of a friend who managed to leave through Greece,” and “Tatty, do you think I can ride a bike to Istanbul,” we have to stop and remember: We are not in control.

There is only one pilot in this crazy journey, and it’s not El Al.

It’s G-d.

He and He alone knows exactly where we’re supposed to be, when we’re supposed to get there, and whether it involves four layovers, a border checkpoint, lots of kosher snacks, or a camel ride.

And as desperate as she is to leave, it seems crystal clear that G-d wants my daughter to stay in Jerusalem right now. Why? That, we can’t know. Perhaps there was a spiritual task she was supposed to fulfill this year that she hasn’t yet completed. Perhaps someone there needs her. Perhaps she needs to go through this experience. And maybe, just maybe, Moshiach is coming today and she won’t need a flight at all! She’ll already be exactly where she needs to be.

So until then, we wait, we pray, we check the news, we refresh the airline app, we exchange memes, we stay in touch.

And we laugh, because sometimes, the only thing more unpredictable than war is a determined 19-year-old Jewish girl with Wi-Fi, a dream, and a now half-unpacked suitcase.

My heart is in Israel. My family is in Israel. My daughter is in Israel. She was supposed to fly home next week—but now Ben Gurion is shut down. This is not just another war. This is not just another news cycle. This is a moment that will be written in the blood and hope of our people, a moment that will echo through history for generations.

In an unprecedented operation, Israel struck deep inside Iran—the very nation that has vowed to wipe us off the map. The same Iran that, through its proxies, launched a brutal surprise attack on October 7th. The same Iran that has waged a 600-day war of terror and threatened to annihilate us with nuclear weapons.

And now? History is unfolding before our eyes. In a hundred years, students in colleges and schools will study this moment. They’ll learn how a nation surrounded by enemies, under constant threat, rose up and shook the world.

And while the headlines talk about fighter jets, Mossad agents embedded in Tehran, drones smuggled across borders, and nuclear reactors being destroyed… We’re talking about something else entirely. We’re talking about miracles. Because as missiles flew, as death hovered overhead, as the world held its breath—Hashem revealed Himself.

They’re calling it Operation Rousing Like a Lion. But it’s not just a military operation. It’s a fulfillment of ancient prophecy: “He crouches, he lies like a lion… who dares rouse him?” (Bamidbar 24:9)

For too long, the Jewish people have seemed asleep. Divided. Distracted. Disconnected. But the lion wasn’t gone. He was crouching. Waiting. And when the moment came, when we were pushed to the edge—we rose. And we rose like a lion.

You can slander us. You can fight us. But you can never, ever break us.

In the land of our ancestors, rabbis in Israel have made a heartbreaking call: Do not gather in synagogues this Shabbat. The threat of retaliation is too real. The risk is too great.

So now I turn to you. Wherever you are—Melbourne, Sydney, London, Paris,  Johannesburg, Toronto, Brooklyn and Los Angeles.

If Jews in Jerusalem cannot pray…Then you must pray in their place. If Tel Aviv is under siege, then the world must rise up in tefillah.

This is a cry from the soul of Israel. A thunderous, ancient roar that echoes across oceans and generations. And every Jew, everywhere, must answer.

•  Not leather and straps—eternity on your arm.
•  Not wax and flame—light in a world of darkness.
•  Not for ritual—for redemption. 

Let this Shabbat be louder than sirens. Let your prayers be fiercer than rockets. Let your unity shake the gates of Heaven. The lion has risen. Now rise with it.

As Bilaam prophesied: “A star will emerge from Jacob…” (Bamidbar 24:17)

Moshiach, come now.

On Shavuot, I rounded up my five youngest and headed to the park.

Now, if you're a parent, you get it. Five kids. On a holiday. Out in public. That’s not a trip — that’s a mission. There’s snacks, drama, sibling politics, and someone always needs the bathroom right now.

We had barely left the house when — boom! — my youngest triplet, Y., whacked his brother D. Full-on punch to the back.

. Who knows. Maybe D. dared to walk ahead. Maybe he took Y.’s water bottle. Maybe he breathed too loud. Either way, the meltdown came fast and furious.

D., rightfully furious, turned bright red. “I’m going home!” he yelled, and made a beeline toward First Avenue — toward the street. Two women nearby gasped. “He’s going into traffic!” they shouted.

.”

I caught up with D., sat down on some nearby steps, held him and asked, “Do you want to go home or do you want to go to the park?”

“I want to go home.”

“If you go home, we all have to go home,” I explained. “I can’t send some of you to the park and some of you home.”

But he insisted: “I want to go home.”

At that moment, his older sister stepped in. “D.,” she said, “If you let us go to the park, I’ll let you ride my scooter.”

And that’s all it took. We headed back toward the park, D. happily riding his sister’s scooter, crisis averted, and we spent the afternoon happily playing on the playground.

Honestly, that kind of thing happens all the time and is quickly forgotten. What stayed with me is what happened the next day.

The following morning, the day after Shavuot, I saw Y. and D. getting ready for their day. Not only were they getting along, Y. had made D. breakfast! Completely unprompted. No apology speech, no drama, no therapy session. Just a quiet, humble act of love.

And I thought: what an incredible parable.

We all mess up. We all have our “Yehuda moments” — when we snap, when we hit (maybe not physically, but emotionally), when we push someone away over something small. But what defines us isn’t the mistake. It’s the morning after.

What do we do once the storm has passed? Do we hold grudges? Do we double down in our pride? Or do we make breakfast?

Children have this magical ability to reset. To forgive. To repair.

If this had happened between adults, we’d be talking about years of therapy, resentment, and tension. But that’s the beauty of children—the incredible ability to forgive and move on. Something we can all learn from.