Two years ago, my world was shattered. On April 7, 2023, my wife Lucy and our daughters Maia, 20, and Rina, 15, were murdered by Hamas terrorists, their lives stolen in a moment of barbaric hatred funded by Iran. And yet, last week, I got engaged.
It’s the kind of sentence that doesn't quite make sense. Not logically. Not emotionally. How does one get from tragedy to simchah?
That’s the question people keep asking me. And I wish I had a clean answer, but life rarely gives us answers wrapped in ribbon. It gives us moments. Quiet, painful, surprising moments. Like one Shabbat afternoon, about a year ago.
Until that point, I had never been truly alone. After the attack, my three remaining children – Keren, Tali, and Yehuda – had always been with me. One, two, or all three. Always. But on that particular Shabbat, they each had plans. I found myself alone. Entirely. And for Seudah Shlishit, the third meal, I chose to stay that way.
After Mincha, I returned home, to silence. And I cried. For thirty minutes, I sat in the stillness and sobbed. And then I asked myself the question no one else could ask: why are you crying, now?
It wasn’t the first time I had returned to an empty house. But this time was different. A voice inside me whispered the answer: because it’s Shabbat. Because it’s been thirty years since you were last alone on a Shabbat. And it won’t be the last. And it’s not good to be alone.
And just like that, another question surfaced: so what should I do?
And there it was, the answer: you should remarry.
It wasn’t a desperate thought. It was a still, solid one. It didn’t matter whether it would take a year or a decade, I suddenly felt calm. The tears stopped.
The next morning, I began. I entered the world of shidduchim, a world both hopeful and humbling. Over the next year, I met around 30 women. Most of the time, I knew within ten minutes that it wasn’t a match. It would have been easy to grow cynical, but I chose something else. I chose to see each mismatch not as failure, but as progress. Every ‘no’ was a step closer to the one.
And along the way, I learned things I never knew I needed to know. One woman had the résumé, but no friends. Another seemed perfect, until I realised she never asked questions. One suggested I meet her friend who was a career coach before our third date... and then charged me 300 shekels for the encounter!
Each of the thirty were beautiful souls, but finding a partner is like searching for the next piece of a giant jigsaw puzzle. Many pieces seem close to fitting, but subtle differences in shape – yours and theirs – mean they just won’t lock into place.
Then, thanks to Tzippi and Rifka from Points of Contact (a closed Facebook group of around 600 volunteer matchmakers), I met Aliza – and suddenly, it made sense.
Lucy was perfect for me for our idyllic 25 years together – the ideal partner for a young man finding his way as a rabbinical student, exemplary as a mother of five, and the spiritual architect of our home. But tragedy rewrites a person. And the man I am today is not the man that I was.
Aliza is perfect for the man I’ve become. She brings out the best in me – and after battling the world of shidduchim, she has emerged as the most optimistic person I know.
I am not one person anymore. I am a mosaic – pieces gathered from a 25-year marriage, from raising five children, from loss, and from healing.
Lucy taught me how to love, how to listen, how to give without overpowering. Maia taught me how to parent, how to believe in someone’s potential. Rina taught me how to be a human – how to care for the planet, and even more, for people who don’t think like you do.
And tragedy? Tragedy taught me how to see what matters. It stripped away the noise. It left behind only the meaningful: friends, family, purpose.
So how does one get from heartbreak to happiness? I still don’t know.
But I do know this: sometimes the first step isn’t understanding. It’s crying alone on a Shabbat afternoon, and listening for the still quiet voice that follows.
