“I’ll need a new name of a hostage to pray for now,” one woman said tearfully. She had been part of a group that divided up all the names of the hostages, and for the past 10 months, she had been praying daily for “her” hostage. Tragically, her’s was among the six who we learned this past Sunday were brutally murdered.

“Me too,” acknowledged another woman who had been praying for “her” murdered hostage every Shabbat before candle-lighting.

We were gathered at our weekly Monday night Torah class at Chabad. It was Labor Day weekend and the class was almost canceled, but surprisingly the room was packed.

Slowly, one by one, the women around the table opened up about their feelings.

“I haven’t been able to sleep for the last two nights.”

“I feel like I’ve been kicked in my gut,” another agreed. “I’m walking around in a daze, unable to focus on anything.”

“I find myself bursting out in tears at the craziest moments.”

“I feel like I’m in mourning. I feel like a brother and sister have been taken. I had their names, their pictures, their smiles. I read about their lives. Their soccer games, their trips, their dreams…”

“After all our prayers, why did G‑d not listen? We prayed so hard for Hersh and the others. It’s so hard to understand.”

“A few days ago, I watched the parents of the hostages calling out their names in Gaza, hoping that they could hear and be strengthened. And now … this …?!”

The room was quiet as her voice trailed off before another woman continued, “It was important for me to be here tonight. To share. To hear one another. To get some inspiration. Not to be sitting home alone on my couch just staring off into space, thinking and crying. I really appreciate this.”

“I’m here because I want to hold space for the pain of these parents. For Rachel Goldberg-Polin and for the others. If I can be here with other Jewish women, doing something spiritual, learning about Judaism, I am doing something tiny that they cannot do right now. This is my way of taking part in their pain.”

One after another, the women shared how shattered they each felt. I listened to the discussions, to the brokenness, to the despair. We all felt the same.

Then it dawned on me. It was so obvious and so simple, but it had to be said.

The fact that we are all feeling so devastated, as if we are family, despite living thousands of miles away, is because we are family. We feel that the pain is ours because it is ours. If Rachel’s son was brutally murdered, it was my son. If Eden was brutally tortured, my sister was tortured.

Take a step back for a moment.

Realize that there is a horrific, devastating beauty in the pain we are feeling. This does not take away from the sadness. This does not take away from the tears we are shedding and the restlessness we can’t escape. But realize, for at least one moment, that it’s beautiful that we feel that loss, that pain, those copious tears. It’s beautiful because it shows just how connected we are.

Because that means we are one. This is all of us.

After my father passed away a few months ago, a wise friend told me that the fact that I am experiencing this huge void in my life is a testament to my close relationship with him. My tears and sadness coming at all hours of the day showed that he was such a central part of my life. Ironically, my deep loss demonstrated how beautiful my love had been. Because if we don’t have a relationship, we don’t mourn it.

And so, our tears today are in some twisted, tragic way beautiful tears. We are feeling this loss because there is no us and them. We are them. We are every single one of those mothers, fathers, sisters, and brothers.

Let this sink in: This latest horror has uncovered, yet again, the essence of who we are. We have been forced to gaze deeply in the mirror at a part of ourselves that we sometimes forget to express. What we see reflected at us, through our rage, through our misery, through our hopelessness, is just how deeply connected we all are.

Perhaps it is no coincidence that we have just started the month of Elul, which helps us prepare for the High Holidays through the process of teshuvah. Teshuvah, commonly translated as “repentance,” really means “return.”

What are we returning to? To the essence of who we are: Am Yisrael, G‑d’s chosen people, with a Divine soul and a G‑dly mission. A people who are forever and intrinsically connected to G‑d, to our Land, and to each other.

That is why it hurts so badly.

And this is just a foretaste of the joy we will one day experience together, when G‑d will “wipe away the tears from every face.”

May it be soon. Amen.