That terrible knock on the door

Have you ever had something go seriously, terribly wrong in your life? And do you remember that feeling you felt in the pit of your stomach when you first had an inkling that something horrible might have happened, but you didn't know for sure yet?

I'm not talking about losing your keys here. I know that this feeling has only happened to me once in my life, and it was one too many times. It is a feeling of utter helplessness - a feeling where you know, deep down, that something terrible has happened... but you aren't quite willing to admit it to yourself yet until you had proof. It is the world crashing down around your ears, a signal that your life has irrevocably changed, for the worse.

Today, at least five Israeli families around the country received the worst news imaginable. Their young, vibrant, dedicated sons and brothers had been killed - one in a helicopter crash, the other four in a pitched battle with entrenched Hezbollah forces in southern Lebanon (Note: details are still a bit sketchy; will change the numbers/details if things are updated).

These families must have been watching the news as reports came in of heavy fighting in the north. They probably didn't want to watch the news, but couldn't tear themselves away. They knew that Yonatan or Micha or Noam were in the north, probably involved in the fighting. They knew. And so the mothers and fathers of these young men sat there, glued to the television and radio, hands on their mouths, with a feeling deep in the pit of their stomach. A feeling of helplessness, that would not go away.

And then, each of these five families had their worst fears confirmed. An IDF officer came to each home to tell them the news. Perhaps they saw the car park and the officer slowly walk up to their door. Perhaps, instead, their first confirmation was a careful knock on the door. Around the country today, five families heard the words of, "I am sorry but I have some terrible news for you. Your son is dead."

And around the country, a hundred - no, a thousand other families heaved a sigh of relief that at least it wasn't their son. The feeling is tempered by grief for the other families - for all of Israel is a family - and they probably feel just the slightest bit guilty that at least it happened to someone else.

This elaborate scenario is playing out on a nearly daily basis. The one time I had that feeling in my life was nearly unbearable. Imagine having this feeling every single day while this business continues. Have you seen the parents of Israeli combat soldiers while their sons are away on duty? These mothers and fathers continually worry - they can't help themselves. They age prematurely.

What is even more heartbreaking is the families who simply don't know - and may never know. I cannot get Noam Shalit's quiet, pained face out of my head. Nor can I forget the heartbreaking letter his family wrote in the hopes their son might be allowed to see it.

How can this end?