Dear America: Ask us the questions

Two years. Almost to the day, it had been two full years since I had been back to the United States for a visit.

When I purchased my plane ticket in July, I actually shed tears of joy, let out a sigh heavily laced with “finally,” and saw it as a light at the end of the tunnel.

Which tunnel? War.

As someone who lived in Israel through the October 7, 2023, Hamas-led massacres and the start of the Gaza war – which is still ongoing – three rounds of attacks with Iran, engagements with Hezbollah in the north, and ballistic missiles and drones from the Houthis in Yemen south of us... I thought a trip to the other side of the globe would be good for me – mentally and emotionally.

I was wrong.

Oh, I definitely needed a break – everyone does. But perhaps I was wrong about the location – or at the very least, my expectations.

I went to the U.S. for a month with one goal: rest. This wasn’t meant to be a "run around and see everyone you know" kind of trip – those are the only kind I have ever known. This time, however, I wanted minimal but meaningful connection with family and friends. But what I received was not exactly what I had envisioned.

I left a few encounters frustrated, disappointed, and truthfully... offended.

At one of my first gatherings, we hugged and exchanged greetings. After we ordered drinks, I waited – expecting questions like:

“How was your flight?”
“How long are you staying in Texas?”
“War must be scary. How are you doing?”
“Are you going back to Israel?”

But instead... crickets.

I kept waiting. The questions didn’t come. After I asked a few of my own, I felt a sadness in the pit of my stomach. They responded politely – but didn’t ask anything back. Not even the simplest of questions – nothing even about the weather!

I spent the first two weeks staying with a good friend – someone who had gone through October 7 with me. We had fled to Cyprus together nine days after the war began, planning to return when things calmed down – thinking it might be a couple of weeks.

It wasn’t.

I came back after 35 days, grounded by a concussion I sustained from a surprise fall. When I returned, I stepped into a land full of hurting, grieving people. And it hasn’t stopped – nearly two years later.
One thing I’ve learned here in Israel: superficial doesn’t cut it. Not in dinners, not in group gatherings, not even in texts. We go deep. And always – always – someone asks, “How are you?” and cares to know the answer.

I didn’t realize how much the U.S. experience had affected me until I was telling this story to friends here – and unexpectedly started to cry like it had happened yesterday.

None of them could believe it either. They were as perplexed as I was. It made me feel seen and perhaps even a little less crazy for feeling the sting of dismissal and perceived lack of care.

Yesterday, in the early morning hours, I processed every scenario. I found solace in the Psalms. Like King David, I had to encourage myself in the Lord.

It’s so disappointing when others don’t meet our needs the way we expect. But in the end, it’s what we do with that disappointment that shapes us. When our hearts hurt, we can choose to keep them soft – or let them harden.

I was thinking about something upon my return. While I was in the States, I had two pedicures and they felt glorious! After walking in a desert land – literally and emotionally – for two years, a callous had built up on the side of one of my big toes. Even with paraffin treatments and expensive scrubs, it didn’t go away.

But I remembered something: I had bought a sharp callous remover while in South Africa a few years ago. It works wonders – because I’m the one holding the tool. I can sense the pressure. I know what feels right.

And I then realized: my heart is the same.

I can use the tools of Scripture to keep it soft. I can yield the blade to God, trusting Him to tend to the pain, smooth out the roughness, and deal gently with the places I can’t reach.

People didn’t meet my expectations. They didn’t ask the questions that felt obvious to me.

But I’m choosing to shift the narrative.

I’m thinking the best of them. Believing it wasn’t from a place of lack of care, but rather insecurity. Maybe even fear. Perhaps they didn’t ask because they were afraid of what might come out if they did. War is complex – for everybody.

So I forgive.
I learn.
And I soften.

I wrote this as a reminder – for anyone who might find themselves on either side of the conversation. Whether you’re the visitor from Israel, or the American welcoming them – press in.

Don’t be afraid to ask questions, even if they feel uncomfortable. Sometimes, the deepest kindness is simply showing that you care.

So, keep your mind open, and your heart soft.

Selah.