One Family

A bunch of you missed it, so I’m sharing it here with you! If you haven’t already, make sure to grab a copy of Ami Living—it’s an amazing magazine filled with inspiration and helpful content, and it was such a privilege to be featured in it.

This Year, May We All Come Home

Appreciating the many aspects of Yerushalayim

By Ellie Azerad

I bumped into a childhood friend today. She was visiting Israel. She looked at me, her eyes filled with wonder, her voice almost trembling with nostalgia.

“I haven’t been to Israel in 14 years, since seminary!” she said. “I have so many stories to tell—but you must be so bored of them. You must be so used to living here.”

I almost laughed at the absurdity of her words.

“Are you kidding?” I blurted out, shaking my head. “Bored? Used to living in Yerushalayim? Every single second here is a gift. I will never be used to it.”

Because how could I?

How could I ever take for granted that I get to live in a place where holiness isn’t just something I read about—it’s something I walk through, breathe in, touch with my hands?

How could I not feel like the luckiest person alive, knowing that at any given moment, I can decide—just because I want to—to get into my car and drive to Rochel Imeinu?

A City of Holy Footsteps

It was a quiet afternoon when I decided to go. No grand plans, no weeks of waiting. Just a simple thought: I want to go davenby Mama Rochel. Because she’s right here, just a short drive from my home.

So we went, my oldest daughter and I. On the way back, my daughter turned to me, her voice full of excitement.

“Mommy,” she said, “let’s stop at the Kosel, too.”

So we did. We arrived in time for shkiah, just as the last golden light kissed the stones of the holiest place on earth. The city was slowing down, the birds were beginning their evening symphony, and I stood there with my daughter, staring at the Kosel, feeling the weight of generations pressing against me.

And before we got into the car again, we decided—let’s go to Dovid Hamelech, too.

Because why not?

Where else in the world can a person go to work, cook dinner and do laundry—and then stand before Mama Rochel, whisper tefillos at the Kosel, and recite Tehillim at the kever of Dovid Hamelech, all before nightfall?

I will never, ever be used to it.

A City That Feels Like Family

And it’s not just the holiness. It’s the people. It’s the feeling that this entire city is one giant family.

Like the time we were out on a freezing winter night, picking up things around town, when my daughter suddenly craved a hot bowl of soup. We stopped at a tiny kiosk, the kind of place you’d barely notice in the daylight but that feels like an oasis when you’re cold and hungry.

I ordered soup for her, and as I reached for my wallet, the man behind the counter smiled.

“And one for the ima,” he said, ladling another steaming portion into a cup and handing it to me. “On the house.”

Because that’s Yerushalayim...where a man selling soup sees a mother and a child and doesn’t just serve them—he cares for them.

It’s in the little moments, the ones that seem ordinary and are anything but.

Like the time I went into a dried-fruit store before Tu BiShvat, searching for the juiciest dates. I asked the shopkeeper which ones were best, and instead of answering, he smiled and said warmly to me and my children, “Try them all. Make a brachahso I can say amen, and you can decide which ones are the juiciest.”

What kind of store does that? What kind of person sees a customer and thinks, Here’s a chance to share a mitzvah?

Or the elderly mother of the shoe store owner, who remarked casually to me one day, “Oh, you brought back the kid.”

I looked at her, puzzled.

She grinned. “You’ve been coming here for 12 years. I’ve seen your kids grow up. And one of them…oh, that one has a special sense of humor.”

I never even realized she’d noticed. But she had. She’d watched, she’d remembered, she’d appreciated.

Before every Yom Tov, I make sure to immerse myself in the electric, pulsing energy of the city. I weave through the packed streets of Geulah, drinking in the pre-Yom Tov rush, the voices, the footsteps, the hurried excitement. I walk through the stores, the smell of fresh challah wrapping around me like a warm embrace.

Everywhere I go, I see Yidden preparing—their arms filled with bags, children tugging at their mothers, the shopkeepers calling out their best deals. It’s a beautiful, chaotic symphony, a testament to the Jewish heartbeat that pulses strongest in this city.

I close my eyes and listen.

This is Yerushalayim. A city that hums with life and stills with holiness.

We Belong Here

A dear friend of mine just bought a large apartment in Yerushalayim. She smiled as she looked around and said, “It has a lot of room to grow as my family expands.”

I looked at her and held her gaze.

“Do you realize what you’re saying? This is your home. You can say that because you belong here. Because we all belong here.”

I think of my friends in America, the ones buying their so-called forever homes, and my heart wants to cry out to them: This isn’t forever! Don’t you see? Soon, so soon, Moshiach will be here, and your forever home will be here, in the holiest city in the world.

Yerushalayim is a city where people see each other, and not just in passing; they really see each other.

Like my neighbor, a gruff, aggressive man, the kind you might be afraid of. But he noticed that my one-year-old daughter had been using his grandson’s little bike, borrowing it time and time again.

And one day, without a word, he went out and bought her a bike of her own.

Or my elderly neighbors, the ones whose eyes carry the weight of history, whose hands built this land with their blood, sweat and tears. They tell me their stories—of sacrifice, of struggle, of hope that once felt so distant but now lives in the laughter of our children.

And I hug them. I thank them. Because they need to know that we don’t take it for granted. That we see them, that we honor them, that the Yerushalayim they fought for is vibrant and filled with life.

A Love That Never Fades

And so, no, I am not bored of the stories. I will never be bored of the stories. Because Yerushalayim is the greatest story ever told, and I get to live inside of it.

Every stone, every street, every sound—these are the notes in a song that has been sung for thousands of years. A song of longing, a song of hope, a song of homecoming.

I wish I could hop, skip and dance through the streets, stopping every single person I pass, grabbing their hands, looking into their eyes and saying, Aren’t we the luckiest people in the world? Don’t you see what we have?

I want to sing it from the rooftops, from the hills, from the alleyways of the Old City to the tree-lined streets of Givat Hamivtar.

We live in the holiest city in the world.

We are home.

We are living in a difficult time.

We are all in pain. Young boys are fighting for us, for this land, for our future. Families are torn apart. We still cry as we daven—waiting for all our hostages to come home, carrying a weight that feels unbearable.

And yet we persevere.

Because we are am Yisrael.

Because this land is in our bones. Because no matter how dark it gets, we will always find the light.

So no, I will never be used to living here. And I will never stop feeling like the luckiest person in the world.

And if I could, I would stand on the rooftops and scream it for the world to hear:

We are home. ●