Hashem, we’re ready. It’s 11:37 PM and the Kotel has 1, 2, 3, not enough souls, 4, 5, how is it possible that I can count them? We’re ready for You. There’s a chill in the air and I’m not sure where their hands stop and where the wall starts. I don’t know how many more tears these stones can hold. We don’t know where to find You, G-d. I’ve been looking everywhere and all I can see is where You aren’t at the bus stops and where You aren’t at the gates of my Old City. My fear takes up too much space at the checkpoints in Chevron for You. I know where You weren’t on bus 78. You disappear for seconds at a time every time I look over my shoulder. I count the sirens whizzing past and find myself checking the breaking news pages. I don’t want to hope for “just” an accident. We don’t know where to find You, G-d. You aren’t in my eyes as they rake every inch of the next person coming on the bus. There is no luxury of being politically correct now. You aren’t in the knives or the bullets or the stones. I used to think You were everything, I sometimes hope You are. On a good day I believe it. There haven’t been many good days lately. We don’t know where to find You, G-d. Every morning I wake up to be a better teacher because I find You in children’s questions and gifts of dandelions. But there are children killing children now, and G-d, I hope You are not in everything. They are taking You out of this world, and I don’t know how to stop it. I can’t seem to find You here, and G-d, I am not sure I want to. And look, I can recognize the moments stuffed with joy. I don’t think I’m seeking out the bad. I am just tired. I am sifting through the news and scrolling past videos of attacks. I hear what I’m numbing to anyway; someone shares it over dinner. I can’t understand an ounce of what this life here is. I won’t say that I know. I’m not fearless. I want to run to the rooftops and scream, “THIS HURTS.” I want every Jew climbing the stairs with me. Shouting, “WE’RE READY. HEAR US.” Your children are crying G-d. And we don’t know how much louder we can be. G-d we’re ready, we’re ready for the drought to end. The prayers, demands, wishes, they’re falling out of our mouths. Our heads are tilted back, hopeful. We are so desperate to catch the answers, I want them to rain from the heavens. I want 7 billion souls in the shapes of white doves resting on this world. I want to find you, not just in the hugs of big souls in tiny bodies. I want to find you when I check to see which feet are shuffling behind me in the dark. I want my mom to stop counting the numbers. I used to find you in every face. I want that back. And I won’t settle. I won’t stop. I know good news isn’t, “It’s been more quiet lately.” There were four stabbings today. Show me where to find you when I’m too scared to look. My mother used to tell me stories at bedtime. She tucked me in at night and wrapped me up with peace, with comfort. Every morning she’d come in with the sun and wake me up singing. No more whispers of Moshiach at bedtime G-d. Tucking me in with promises isn’t enough anymore. Shine Geula through my window. I’ll keep the curtains open. Let me feel it on my face and in my soul. Wake me up singing.