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Archive for July, 2013

A Prayer for God’s Intervention in America

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Lord,

I feel so lost, disoriented and helpless,

In a land that no longer feels like home—

In a land that once was familiar but is no longer.

America is not what it once was—the land of righteousness.

Worst of all, we may never return to our vibrant roots,

As those who mock Your name lead us to destruction,

Telling us Your way is not the way of the future.

Our leader and his close companions have systematically

Dismantled the wealth of generations past,

Telling us to trust them and that all will be well.

I can see the Evil and duplicity in their hearts.

Others have discerned it as well, but there are not enough of us.

We chafe, whine, gripe, and post endlessly at what we witness,

But our efforts are to no avail, as Evil continues to triumph.

Lord, when will it be enough? When will You intervene,

Displaying Your power, Your might, and Your authority?

When will You expose the deeds of darkness to the light?

When will You stir Your children to action? When, Lord?

There are millions of us who have not bowed our knees

To the false god of Progressivism, nor will we ever.

For our sake, and for the sake of Your name, act swiftly.

Let the fools know You are God Almighty—You and You alone.

Jack Watts   Resources

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HERE IS A STORY OF PAIN AND SORROW TURNED INTO JOY, INSPIRATION, AND TRIUMPH
Dear Mirele,
I can’t believe I have one night to stuff a lifetime of love into this letter.
Tomorrow morning – if 4a.m. can be called morning, I am giving you up. I am taking you, Mirele, to the back entrance of dear, brave Hermann’s grocery and the child rescuers will be waiting there for you and the thirty-two other children under the age of three. They’ll inject you with a sedative so you won’t cry and then they’ll slip off in the predawn with you – my life, my love, out of this barbaric country to safety.
We pushed it off, Mirele. We didn’t want to believe we would have to give up our child, probably never to see her again. But this is the last child rescue. After this there will be none left to rescue, because tomorrow, our informers tell us, is the last big round up. Tomorrow they come for men, women and children. And I’ve been convinced by these words, spoken by our trusted informer, Hermann, the brave gentile doctor, “Any child they take away either dies immediately or dies on the way to the death camp”
The word death three times in one sentence! We were the last ones to be convinced to be give up our child. He said, finally, with the deepest sadness in every exhausted wrinkle in his face, “I cannot force you. But if you keep her with you, she will be dead in a month. They have no use for babies, she cannot work for them. If you want to give her to us, bring her to the back entrance of my grocery at 4a.m.. No belongings, whatever food you have. Goodbye.”
Mirele, do you see why I have to give you up? He said no belongings, but I will beg, I will plead that this letter be allowed to go, sewn into your undershirt. And then, I will pray to G-d that the letter stays with you until you are old enough to read it. You must know that we love you. Your must know why you are alone, without parents. Not because they didn’t love you . . .but because they did!
It’s eerie to think that by the time you read this I will probably be dead. That’s what Hermann says is going on. People either die immediately or on the way or after a week or two of forced labour and no food. But I won’t have lived in vain, Mirele, if I know that I brought you into the world and you will live and survive and grow big and strong and you will be happy. You can be happy, Mirele, because we loved you.
What makes a difference in the lives of adults, its seems, is if they had secure childhoods. Secure, with lots of love and acceptance and needs fulfilled and predictable routine and the like. You’ve had that up to this minute. You’ll have it up till 4a.m.. But then you won’t. Who knows who will end up taking care of you? Some family who will take you in for the money Hermann will pay them? They will surely be kinder to their own than to you.
Here is where pain mixes with rage! I rage at the animals who are making it possible for you to cry and I won’t be there to comfort you.
But you will have this letter, and this letter will make you feel secure, if G-d answers my prayers. You have us, Mirele, even though you don’t see us, we’re with you. We’re watching you and praying for you. Every time you have troubles we are pounding on the door to G-d’s very throne room, insisting on an audience and demanding mercy for our Mirele down on earth, alone, without her parents. And G-d will listen to us. We won’t leave Him alone until he agrees that you deserve health, love and happiness.
Mirele, you’ll wonder what your first two years were like. You’ll wish you could remember. Let me remember for you right now, tenderly, on this piece of paper.
You like hot cereal in the morning, with lots of milk and sugar. Except that there is no milk and sugar now, none in the whole city. But I make your cereal anyway and you eat it with big smiles between every bite. Then you come ready for your nap, so I rock you, after putting the rocker where the sunlight will fail on it. I rock you until you fall asleep and then I put you in my bed. You sleep well there, you like my smell. What will you smell tomorrow night? Surely nobody will rock you tomorrow, not even in the shade. Oh G-d? I cannot do it! I will do it. For you, Mirele, so you will have at least a hope for life.
Mirele, do me a favour. After you’ve grown, after this dirty, nightmarish war is over…I know there will be those who underplay the tragedies going on here every day. They will say, “A war is a war. It was just a war”. Mirele, tell them about this agony! Tell them how you felt secure in my arms rocking to sleep in the sunlight. Tell them how your father ran, one night, a year ago, to get you medicine, past sentries, while breaking the curfew. He risked his life to ease your pain, Mirele. And now the three of us are being torn apart. “Just a war”..?! Tell them, Mirele, that all wars in the world don’t add up to the agony in my heart right now as I write this.
G-d it’s 2a.m. already. Only two more hours with my love, my baby, my life, my Mirele. I’m going to hold you now, Mirele, for two hours. Your father and I are going to wake you, feed you and tell you over and over how much we love you. You’re barely two years old, but maybe, if G-d is good, maybe, you’ll remember it and maybe you’ll keep this letter until you’re old enough to read it.
There will be bad times for you, Mirele, I know. But just think about me holding you, rocking you to sleep in the sunlight. Keep that sunlight in your heart always.
I love you. Your father loves you. May G-d help us all.
Mama

FROM MIRELE:

Miracles do happen – my mother’s letter stayed with me, sewn into my undershirt and now I am getting old myself and have decided to share it with you. After almost fifty years of keeping it private, why did I translate it from the Yiddish and decide to share it with you now? A few reasons…
Firstly, one doesn’t hear much about the Holocaust anymore very much these days. There are even those who claim it was made up, not true, a brilliant Jewish ploy for sympathy. My mother asked me to remind you that it wasn’t “Just a war”. It was a monstrosity.
Secondly, my mother’s faith in G-d, even at that dreadful hour, never ceases to amaze me. Even though she was almost certain that she would soon die, as indeed she did, she believes firmly in G-d to whom she can turn both before and after her earthly life ends. This strengthens my faith and perhaps it will strengthen yours.
And lastly – I know I’m from a different generation. Nowadays I’m told, all mothers work. But sometimes I look out my window and see little children, just two years old. That’s how old I was when my mother was forced to give me up to strangers. And I look out my window and see these two year olds cry because they want to stay with their mothers, but their mothers are putting them on the bus because they want to be free of them – and something doesn’t seem right.
You mothers who are lucky enough to have babies – raise them too. Don’t throw them out before they’re ready. Don’t leave them before they’re ready. Go now. Rock them in the sunlight. For my mother.
Miriam bas Leiba
(In my mother’s letter, she didn’t leave her name, but I always think of her as Leiba – “Love”. I’m lucky. Many of the children rescued with me don’t even know their own names.)
This genuine document is reprinted by courtesy of Rabbi L.D. Sandler and Gila Sandler, Brooklyn, NY

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