I recently visited the Church of the Nativity to sit in the cave where tradition says Jesus was born. I arrived just as a young man was lighting the lamps. I watched him lower each one from the ceiling. He filled the lamps with oil and gently lit their wicks before raising them again. Over time, the cave filled with light.
Visiting the church has been my routine since the start of the war. With planes roaring overhead en route to Gaza, the cave was the one place where I could find quiet. One of the holiest places in the world, the church should be crowded with pilgrims, especially this time of year, but I am often the only person there, which always feels surreal. When I visit, I light candles for the dead, the wounded, the scared. I light candles for my family, my friends, my neighbors. And I pray.
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