We are all different, from several generations.We are the women of the wailing wall.
We are rich and we are poor. Worn hand-me-downs and crisp new trends. Some young and vibrant, some with weathered skin and silver hair, like me.
Although we are diverse in every way, we come in solidarity for one purpose.
To seek answers from G-d.
Purposefully I stride, in my trousers, with large handbag in tow. I pause to grab Torah, the very words of G-d, and slow down as I approach the wall.
Old and feeble, but strong in prayer, beseeching for my granddaughter.
She breaks my daughter’s heart as she is lost and tries to find herself.
I weep, sobbing softly for my daughter’s pain, and cry out for my granddaughter to change her course
To come back to the place that she knows is true.
My heart bows low in reverence though my posture remains standing.
My hands shake as they always do. I gently roll up the message that I’ve scrawled out with my request, tenderly and firmly sticking it into a crevice in the wall.
My lips move as I pray and silent tears fall. My cares and anxious thoughts of the day seem to fall to the ground with each tear.
I look up in thanks. Thankful to the One who hears. The One who sees. The One who cares. I bow my head and smile, then gently walk out backwards.
Post Script: I wrote this in July when visiting Israel and going to the Western Wall. I was struck by the variety of women that I saw.
Eastern and Western worldviews, from every socioeconomic group and age. Yet many seemed so earnest in their pursuit of an answer from God.
I was struck by the thought of each woman as an individual; each woman had a story, a prayer that they earnestly prayed and wrote, putting the prayer requests into the wall’s nooks and crannies.
I saw many women crying. Some quietly and reverently, some alone, and some with friends or loved ones. I imagined a woman, weeping with expectant hope that God would answer her fervent prayers for her granddaughter.
She is the woman I wrote about.