Amidst the terror and tragedy of war, a mother finds profound gratitude through her children's unwavering faith, demonstrating that even in the darkest hours, praise and hope can emerge.



“Through the praise of children and infants
you have established a stronghold against your enemies,
to silence the foe and the avenger.” (Psalm 8:2)

Gratitude is not the first word one expects after two years of war, sirens, and terror. Yet as I look back from October 7, 2023, to this present moment, gratitude is exactly what God has been quietly growing in my heart—like a small shoot pushing up through scorched earth.

That dark Saturday morning began with sirens at 6:30 a.m. My husband and I grabbed our children and ran to the bomb shelter. We had heard sirens before, but this time was different—more intense, more ominous. In the hours that followed, Hamas and Islamic Jihad carried out the deadliest attack on Jews since the Holocaust. More than 1,200 were Israelis were murdered and 255 kidnapped—Jewish, Muslim, and Christian—simply because they were Israeli or lived in Israel. The face of our nation was changed in a single day.

Since then, every family in Israel has been touched by war. Every outing is measured by how long it would take to reach a shelter. At night, when I tuck my children into bed, I think and pray for the hostages whose faces we have carried in our hearts for two years. On October 13, 2025, when the 20 remaining living hostages were finally released, our whole nation seemed to exhale at once. There was dancing, tears, stunned silence—and gratitude. We still pray for the return of the bodies of those who remain in captivity, that their families may bury them in the land of Israel.

In the midst of this, my own role has shifted. I am a wife and mother, I work full-time, and I am also a certified search and rescue volunteer. During the war, I was called to serve many times. Leaving my children at home while sirens were sounding was a test of faith. My daughter, only four at the time, became my little theologian. Each time I left, she whispered, “Remember, Mummy, whenever we are afraid, we will trust in God.”

One day in January 2024, terrorists attacked my hometown with cars and knives. My children’s kindergarten went into lockdown; the children were sealed in the bomb shelter while the terrorists were nearby. I dropped to my knees in the living room and cried out to God, knowing I could not reach them.

Later, when it was safe, I rushed to the kindergarten. The teacher told me my little girl had begun singing, then teaching the others:

“The Keeper of Israel neither slumbers nor sleeps.
Where does my help come from?
My help comes from the Lord,
the Maker of heaven and earth.” (Psalm 121)

In the middle of fear, my daughter worshipped. In the valley of the shadow of death, praise rose from a kindergarten bomb shelter. From that moment on, gratitude took on a new meaning for me.

Recently, my daughter, now six, asked me a hard question. During yet another midnight siren, she whispered in the shelter, “Mummy, are the bombs from Hamas, Hezbollah, or Iran?”

I said, “No, this time they’re from the Houthis in Yemen.”

She paused, then asked, “Why do so many people hate us and want us dead?”

I did not know how to answer, especially since it was so early in the morning and I had not had my coffee yet. But then she said, “It’s okay, Mummy—God loves us.”

This year, as Thanksgiving approaches in many countries, my heart turns to a different kind of table. Not a table filled with abundance, but one set in the presence of enemies; not a life free from danger, but a life held by a faithful God. Corrie ten Boom’s words have anchored me: “There is no pit so deep that God’s love is not deeper still.”

After two years of war, I am grateful that God’s covenant love for Israel has not changed. Threats from Hamas, Hezbollah, Iran, or the Houthis may continue; ceasefires may come and go. Yet the Keeper of Israel neither slumbers nor sleeps. His promises endure, His presence does not withdraw, and His love can be felt even in the deepest night.

In a season of giving thanks, my prayer is that these words from Isaiah 61 will be fulfilled over my people, and over all who suffer:

“…to comfort all who mourn,
to console those who mourn in Zion,
to give them beauty for ashes,
the oil of joy for mourning,
the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness;
that they may be called oaks of righteousness,
the planting of the Lord, that He may be glorified.”

Source