Of all the world’s beauty, I know not why, a single star in the midnight sky makes me cry. Of all the children of nature, of golden sunsets and delicate flowers, of mighty lions and fragile chicks, of all that has the power to move the human heart, none speaks to me as does the little star.
What is it that pulls me so, that makes for such a longing in my soul? Why does my being sense beneath the star’s poignant silence great depths, when my mind cannot fathom its secrets? Why does this tranquil spark amid the stretching darkness give rise to such intense yearning, this inner relentlessness, this burning desire for something unknown? Oh, how long I’ve dreamt of holding close that elusive, nameless something, veiled by the mysteries surrounding the midnight star.
One night, I did.
We were standing at the open window, my little sister and I, reveling in our nightly rendezvous with nature. The three-year-old girl with the rosebud lips and the large chocolate eyes possesses the unashamed and pure love of G-d’s world that many of us have long lost.
She pointed outside and into the darkness, and asked: “What is over there in the sky?”
“A star,” I said softly.
“And what is that, those things over there?”
“Airplanes.”
We left the window for a moment, and when we came back, the planes were gone. The little girl stared, dismayed. She saw the blackness where, before, bright plane lights had flashed, and she saw the tiny white star that was still there, in a kind of stubborn perseverance. She took it all in, and for a long time she gazed, pensive.
Suddenly she turned to me, a hint of betrayal in her voice: “Will that star also go away?”
I was startled by the expression in her eyes. They held a wistfulness and a strange, ancient sadness that made her look, oh, thousands of years old. It tore at my heart.
And then I understood. I understood the turmoil that rages within me every time I have beheld a star. I knew and felt then with my whole being that my destiny, the destiny of my people, is intertwined with the secrets of the star.
History is witness to the many nations that have built vast empires, produced great men, developed stunning cultures. They have risen but briefly, with all the pomp, grandeur, and egotism of man, only to crumble and go the way of all those before them. Today, those illusions of greatness lie in mocking ruins.
Airplanes appear in the sky with a roar and flashing lights, in a dazzling display of man’s might and brilliance. One by one, they disappear into the black abyss of obscurity, where all that is finite is destined to go.
But that star-and the sheer, unassuming beauty, the aura of greatness surrounding it-is the creation of a Master Artist and, as such, is infinite, endless.
The Jewish nation is G-d’s nation; His Chosen People, beloved children protected by the promise to exist forever.
I finally could grasp the eloquent tales of emotion that the star bespoke: the joys and tragedies, pain and strength, longing and hopes, tears and dreams. That star, the symbol of my nation, is testimony to our immortality.
I held my sister close, and together we gazed into the night as I whispered my thoughts. It was both a reassurance to her and a defiant declaration to the entire world.
“O innocent child, you must not worry, for the star is G-d’s handiwork and, like us, has existed for thousands of years. It will not disappear into the blackness, and by our Father’s promise, neither will we, Jewish daughter, neither will we.”