We live in Jerusalem, where the sound of sirens from the threat of missiles has become a familiar thread in the fabric of our days. At some point, we stopped meeting them with urgency. If there is a shelter nearby, we walk, not run. I’ve come to believe that the panic, the racing pulse, is often more harmful than the danger itself.
And as we walk, or if we find ourselves in a park when the sirens wail, we turn our hearts upward. We pray. We recite Tehillim, not out of terror, but out of longing. We pray for His sheltering presence.
We await the day when Israel will no longer know the drumbeat of war, when the only sirens we hear are those that sing the arrival of Shabbat, calling us to prepare for peace and holiness. Until that day comes, we sanctify each siren as a summons—not just to safety, but to faith. Each blast becomes a cry to return, an invitation to draw closer to God.