During the Iranian-Israel war, getting a flight out of Israel felt like a feat. My daughter’s original flight was canceled, so we pieced together a new route – Israel to Rome, Rome to Portugal, Portugal to America.
Then came another email. Her flight out of Israel was leaving nine hours late, which meant she’d miss her connecting flight from Rome to Portugal.
At some point, I told her what felt obvious – this trip had gotten too complicated. Just stay in Israel. If she couldn’t get home for Passover, Israel was the place I wanted her to be.
But she said, “Mommy, I really want to come home. I’m okay, I can handle it.”
So she did.
Rome for the night.
A walk to the beach that next morning.
Then Portugal – another strange city, another night, and she just kept going.
At one point she said, “I just realized – every day this week, I’m in a different country.”
I expected stress.
Relief, maybe.
Instead, I felt pride.
I thought I was watching the trip fall apart.
What I was really watching was my daughter rise to it.
Passover is a story about the long way home.
Forty years long.
Sometimes the long way is what makes us ready.
