Dark blue contrasted by white—the royal blue dress my husband bought me to feel like a Shabbat queen; white flakes of ash falling like snow on my dress. We sit in the late afternoon sun in Tzfat, learning Torah, forest fires burning all around us. My forests. The forests I hike to, prayer book in hand, to pray amongst the tall trees. Burning.

We don’t budge. This is what we do on Shabbat afternoons, and we aren’t going to let Hezbollah ruin our plans. Not today, not ever. It smells toasty. Air cracking loud, an explosion above us. Drone intercepted.

Time for Minchah.

I open Shaar Habitachon (“Gate of Trust”) and read a quote from Jeremiah: “Blessed is the one who trusts in G‑d, and G‑d will be his support.”1 My nerves are soothed.

A friend passes by, trying to find my house. I wave her inside. We open the book and sip cool glasses of ice water.

We barely make it through the first page before sirens ring out in all directions. We laugh and go to the bomb shelter, the book forgotten in the living room. But it’s in our hearts.

A bird has made its nest on the windowsill, but we need to shut the metal covering the windows. With much pain, we shoo the bird away.

We won’t leave our homes. We are here to stay.

“G‑d, rebuild its nest on my windowsill,” I beg.

I know You are building Your home in Jerusalem.

It is all unfolding. I just need to keep my eyes wide open and trust.

I pour the brown rice into a glass jar. My mind thinks of survival. If we need to pack up and leave, it would be smarter to keep it in the bag. I smile to myself and shake it off. We are home. For thousands of years, we have run. I am in my dream kitchen in Safed, unpacking food. G‑d has brought me here. We are safe. “Blessed is the one who trusts in G‑d.”2 I enjoy the sound of the rice filling the jar. It overflows.

Opening the Gate of Trust. Going to the shelter. Hearing the noises. More Shaar HaBitachon. The day goes on like this.

The sun is setting. This is my land. My land to enjoy. The land that G‑d gave to Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. The land for us to live His Torah and mitzvahs with fullness and sincerity. The land where Deborah sat under her palm tree. Where our Temple will soon stand. Where our 12 Tribes planted their orchards.

I think of Jeremiah being told the Temple will be destroyed and we will be exiled. And then told to purchase a piece of land. This was G‑d telling him, you will go but you will return. You will enjoy the fruits.

“Enough of my fear, Ariel,” I say to my husband, “let’s go out.” I grab the keys. We head to the mountaintop to watch the sunset. Police block the road, the smell of smoke is overwhelming. The road is closed. I make a U-turn, then a sharp right into a nearby neighborhood.

I park outside a soccer field just in time to watch the sunset glow. There she is, my forest. Here, all I see is full green glory. It revives me.

I open my prayerbook.

A neigh breaks my silence. We follow its sound.

A white-nosed brown colt runs around in its cliffside stable begging for attention. And for water. Its water basin is empty; the hose is off.

We hesitate. Should we put the hose in the trough and turn it on? It’s not our water. But the owner would surely want his horse watered.

The horse uses its nose to move the hose into the basin. OK, that’s a clear sign.

“G‑d is merciful to all of His creations,” reads Ashrei, the opening Psalm of the afternoon Minchah service. I feel the horse singing Ashrei as it gulps the water down in delight.

I think of all my family in North America texting me terrified. Come here. Come be safe. The valley soaked with the last rays of the sun’s light. The handsome young horse nuzzling my husband.

Life is good here. More than good. It’s geulah, a state of “redemption.”

I can see G‑d here, present in my life and the world around me.

The letter aleph is the key to redemption. It causes the darkness itself to shine.

When I look for G‑d, He is everywhere.

When I research my fears, they are everywhere.

Trust. It is a choice. But once you choose it, it becomes your new reality. One of Divine light.

The choice is constant: Trust or fear. I can’t be in both places at once.

Trust is a place of connection, of Divine embrace. Fear keeps my mind swirling.

The night air is heavy with smoke.

The stars twinkle.

G‑d has brought us this far, and the good is just beginning.

I feel excited for all the good that is just around the corner, and grateful for all the ways I can feel G‑d in my life right now.