Motherhood Under Missiles

In the Shadow of His Wings

In the bomb shelter

He shall cover you with His feathers,
And under His wings you shall take refuge…
(Ps.91:4)

Dearest Daughters,

Well, I’m going to truly divert from my typical letters to you. But somehow, on this day, it feels more appropriate to write a different kind of letter.

As you know, I’m in Israel. And I’m learning what it means to be a mother in a bomb shelter while missiles fall.

Your dad and I have been involved with Israel for many years now. We have so many friends here, so much shared life with this community. This is your dad’s seventeenth trip to Israel, and my thirteenth, if I’m remembering correctly. I dreamed of coming here long before I ever stepped on a plane, from the time I was a young girl making my first stumbling attempts at Hebrew, longing to see the land of the Bible, to stand at the walls of Jerusalem.

This time, a young couple in our church community, who are very dear to us, asked your dad to perform their wedding ceremony. The weeks leading up to the trip were chaotic—a month of mission work in Chihuahua, then twelve short days at home filled with preparing high school classes, planning for the new year, prenatals for all the mommies soon to deliver, and celebrating my fiftieth birthday. It almost felt like a relief to finally board the plane.

We brought Dad’s parents—your grandparents—and three generations of the Tindell family. Thirteen of us traveling together.

Our trip went smoothly. We had a layover in Madrid, where we squeezed in a meal at the oldest restaurant in the world, still operated by the same family for over three hundred years. And when we arrived in Israel, it was a joy to watch the awe in the eyes of those who had never been before—standing where Jesus walked, where David fought, where Saul fell, where Peter dropped his nets and followed.

The first few days we toured more than usual so everyone could see the land. But the last two days were consumed with wedding preparations.

As the bride and groom stood waiting to take their vows, your dad preached on living “in the shadow of His wings.” He spoke of covenant, of Ruth and Boaz, of the covering wing, symbolic of that covenant spread in protection and love. He read scripture after scripture about the wing of the Almighty.

He mentioned six passages from Psalms that refer to the shelter of His wings:

Psalm 17:8-9
Keep me as the apple of Your eye;
Hide me under the shadow of Your wings,
From the wicked who oppress me,
From my deadly enemies who surround me.

Psalm 36:7
How precious is Your lovingkindness, O God!
Therefore the children of men put their trust under the shadow of Your wings.

Psalm 57:1
Be merciful to me, O God, be merciful to me!
For my soul trusts in You;
And in the shadow of Your wings I will make my refuge,
Until these calamities have passed by.

Psalm 61:3-4
For You have been a shelter for me,
A strong tower from the enemy.
I will abide in Your tabernacle forever;
I will trust in the shelter of Your wings.

Psalm 63:6–8
When I remember You on my bed,
I meditate on You in the night watches.
Because You have been my help,
Therefore in the shadow of Your wings I will rejoice.
My soul follows close behind You;
Your right hand upholds me.

And finally:

Psalm 91:4–7
He shall cover you with His feathers,
And under His wings you shall take refuge;
His truth shall be your shield and buckler.
Your shall not be afraid of the terror by night,
Nor of the arrow that flies by day,
Nor of the pestilence that walks in darkness,
Nor of the destruction that lays waste at noonday.
A thousand may fall at your side,
And ten thousand at your right hand;
But it shall not come near you.

The ceremony ended in singing; Germans, Israelis, Arabs, Hungarians, Canadians, Africans, North and South Americans, all joining in ancient Israeli dance of celebration, circling in joy.

We went to bed expecting to have a church service the next day, followed by a tour of Jerusalem in the following days.

Instead, as I stood in the bathroom combing my hair the next morning, I heard a sound I’ve only heard a handful of times in my life—air raid sirens. The kind that make your heart pound. I’d heard them at home when a tornado was nearby. Then my phone began sounding an alarm I had never heard before.

In Israel, every newer home is required by law to have a reinforced safe room. The girls had been sleeping there. I went in and woke them.

“I think we’re all about to be in here,” I said.

Your dad checked his phone. The alert said an Iranian strike had begun. Fifteen minutes later, the sirens sounded again. This time, Home Command ordered us into the shelter. The roar of military jets shook the air.

We checked the news. Borders closed. Airport shut down. Iranian missiles incoming.

And immediately my heart turned homeward.

To you.

To Helen and your precious boys and Isaac.

To Blair and his dear wife and little girls.

To Andrew and Aurora and Aaron—and the baby coming that I was supposed to deliver.

To tall, quiet Zach, up in Idaho.

To Christopher, whose special needs require his mommy in ways few understand.

To Nicolas, thirteen, on the edge of becoming a man, waiting for help with his writing.

To my dear little four-year-old Ari, who may have his birthday without me if I cannot return.

I could not dwell there long. The thoughts were too overwhelming. I was thankful that at least Carri Beth is with us this time.

When we were allowed out briefly, we stood on the porch and watched anti-missile systems rip open the sky. Then the house would shake with the boom of interception.

Fifteen times the sirens sent us back into that small room.

We looked at each other differently in those tight quarters. It’s a strange thing. We prayed. Your dad read aloud the above scriptures about the shadow of His wings, and they became more than poetic. They were literal and immediate.

But we also laughed. We joked about brushing our teeth and improving our hygiene in such close quarters. Dad and I sitting together joked about being so close to each other.

Between alarms, Sheyar and Evie rushed over with their family—seven more people—as their home has no built in shelter. They brought us a Tex-Mex dinner! When the sirens went off, all wenty of us crowded into that small shelter. Naomi, seven years old, bounced and said, “I like alarms! This is fun!”

Julia, nine, curled silently under the bed.

We texted endlessly with others in the community.

“Are you okay?”

“Do you have enough food?”

“We’re making memories over here!”

Pictures came in—children under beds, toys scattered, sisters huddled together. No personal space. Only shared danger, shared love, shared life. Togetherness is all that matters.

We live or die together.

Sister Batyah brought a bag of popcorn; “For your bunker,” she said.

Grandma hurried up with glass bottles of water.

Leora brought playing cards “in case we get bored.”

We never quite brought ourselves to play the cards in the shelter, but downstairs between sirens we did. We checked the news. We made FaceTime calls to home.

It was all I could do not to weep when I saw Ari’s face.

“I wish I could give you some slobber kisses!” he said.

“I’ll give them to the phone . . .”

He kissed the screen.

I kissed it back.

That night we slept in our clothes. The alarms came again.

One missile was intercepted before we went into the shelter. We stepped onto the balcony and watched the sky over Mount Gilboa and the Jezreel Valley. Orange streaks tore across the darkness. When an interception happened overhead, the sky flashed and turned an eerie green. The air smelled metallic and strange. Windows rattled. The tiles trembled beneath our feet. Yet people still waved from the street.

This is Israel.

At 1:30 a.m., another alarm. Then another message.

Our nephew and your cousin, back home in the States had fallen into an icy river. He was not breathing. He had been resuscitated but was unresponsive. As Granddad stood on the back patio, tears on his face over his grandson, he raised his eyes toward the city of Nazareth across the valley—the city where Jesus grew up and said, “Jesus loved the little children.” He’s in the hospital, showing some hopeful signs of life as I write this.

Life and death. Bombs and babies. Wedding vows and hospital rooms.

This is life, my dearest daughters.

And we must learn to love one another—near and far.

I must learn to trust the Creator who holds each of you in His hands, who loves you more than even I ever could. After all, we are all ultimately His children, in His tender care. And in the end, that’s all that matters.

Whether the sun is kissing us with light and grace, or the sky is flashing green with missiles overhead—

I love you with all my heart.

Mom