This week, my phone buzzed incessantly with messages from worried friends. “Lisa, have you seen the news? Have you checked on the preschool? Is the synagogue being evacuated?” My heart sank as I rushed to type “bomb threats, Jewish Community Centers” into Google.
Sure enough, within the hour, there were multiple alarming headlines. Not again, I thought.
Once more, bomb threats were flooding in like they had just weeks prior. Jewish Community Centers across the nation were evacuating. Older women were hurriedly exiting swimming pools, wrapping themselves in the small towels typically provided at gyms. Worshipers were hastily leaving their sacred moments, and young children were forming single-file lines as they left their preschools, chatting cheerfully, completely oblivious to the danger surrounding them.
My initial reaction was panic—always panic. I felt shaky and nauseous. Should I rush to pick up my son? Should I call the school? Maybe I should text my friend Sarah; she’s always so calm. I’ll call her.
Then doubt set in. Should I really be feeling this way? It’s not our school that’s being evacuated. The closest threat is an hour away. Don’t be dramatic, Lisa, I chastised myself. But I knew fear would prevail, so I dialed Sarah, the preschool director.
When she answered, her tone was light, and I immediately regretted calling. “Hey, Sarah… it’s Lisa. I’m sorry to bother you, but there are bomb threats in our area again. I just wanted to know what we should expect…”
“Oh, sweetie, don’t apologize! You should know we have a safety plan in place,” she reassured me.
As I listened to her outline the various security measures designed for “such an event,” I found myself reflecting on the warm, comforting feeling I’d first experienced walking through the halls of the temple preschool. Was it really two years ago? It feels like just yesterday. I had been a nervous, first-time mom hesitant to leave my son for four hours.
But all my fears evaporated when I met Sarah. She guided me through the bright hallways adorned with colorful bulletin boards and tiny backpacks hanging on hooks. She knew every child and their family. Kids ran to her for hugs as she passed by, laughter erupted from groups gathered around interactive play areas, and even crying children received gentle comfort.
This was home. It didn’t matter that I was a Christian in a Jewish temple; these were my people. So, I signed the tuition check, feeling an immense weight lift off my shoulders. My son was in safe hands.
“Lisa? Are you still there?”
“Sorry, Sarah. I’m here. I really appreciate this. I feel…better,” I stumbled, unsure of that last word.
Before I could end the call, she lowered her voice, “You know I’d do anything to protect these children, right? No one’s getting past me.”
That did it. My voice faltered, and after thanking her, I hung up, consumed by tears.
This is the reality we face today, and it feels so incredibly unfair. I can’t fathom the kind of hate that incites individuals to terrorize others, especially children. The thought that Sarah, from a different faith, would put herself on the line for my son is a testament to the love that transcends beliefs.
But I’m also grappling with a newfound awareness of privilege. For the first time, the specter of terror brushed against my life. I realized that for marginalized communities, this fear has been a daily reality for centuries. I even contemplated pulling my son from his beloved temple, where he’s surrounded by caring Morahs and a loving community, all for the sake of my own comfort.
But what about the people I cherish? The ones who nurture my child like their own? They can’t simply stop being Jewish. When will they finally have a sense of safety?
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Summary
The article discusses the unsettling experience of receiving news about bomb threats targeting Jewish Community Centers and the emotional turmoil it brings, particularly for those with children in these environments. It reflects on feelings of fear, privilege, and the desire for safety within a community marked by love and acceptance.