Please join me.

The human mind and body hold space for a kaleidoscope of emotions, a constant ebb and flow, broken down into daily and even hourly fragments of processing information and feelings. Right now, I find myself, much like many others, submerged in information overload—and caught in a web of what I can only describe as information paralysis.

The pain stemming from the unfathomable horror stories we read, the experiences that people had and still are going through, feels insurmountable. Yet, the holiday of lights looms over us.

Strange, it’s an odd juxtaposition; the black curtain covering the daylight seems impossibly heavy.

Hopeful, as we must always be, with the realization that we must emerge stronger, better and bring a different kind of light to dispel the shadow of hope that existed before.

A literal light at the end of the tunnel of darkness.

When life was simpler, less than two months ago, I could confidently delve into all the reasons and things that we (I) can do to merit the lights of Kislev.

The mitzvot that could strengthen and brighten my home, family and loved ones.

Present moment—with each day that passes, the only confidence I retain with certainty is that I don’t know.

I don’t know why things happen. I don’t know what will happen. I don’t know when what will happen or to whom. And I certainly don’t know how these “whats” will take place.

Amidst this uncertainty, I know wholeheartedly that God is good.

Perhaps, I remind myself, I should stop trying to calculate the what, when, where, how, who, and certainly the why.

God is good. And merciful. I don’t need to understand. I just know I have somewhere to turn when my information paralysis sets in. God is the force that propels me forward, as long as my desire to achieve persists. I won’t stay stagnant for too long. Just like the dark. The light will come soon. It has to.

And so, I sit down and try to count my blessings. The list quickly becomes an endless stream of gratitude.

Over the years, my children and I have engaged in an activity called the Baruch Hashem notebook, where we write down five things we are grateful for and even things that bring sadness—and work together to try and make those sad things into sources of gladness.

And sometimes, when we come back from a hiatus of the BH notebook—a child will say, “Gosh, I have nothing. Nothing. I missed the bus. I got out during recess…” And then … they take their pen and find just one thing. Thank you … for my finger or else I wouldn’t be writing. Thank you … for the chair I am sitting on because it would be annoying to sit on the floor. And then another. And another. And another. And then they say, “I know we are supposed to do five … but I’m up to 12. Is that OK?”

Such is the strength God gave us with free will and the magnificent ability to master our mindset.

Rabbi Nachman’s simple yet profound teaching echoes in my mind—Emunah is the difference between being brokenhearted and depressed.

This revelation gave me the permission to be OK with feeling devastated over the events of October 7. It doesn’t mean I lack faith; it means I’m brokenhearted.

In this struggle to balance functioning through the fog of devastation and guilt over enjoying moments in time in such darkness, gratitude becomes the anchor.

Gratitude doesn’t dismiss the heaviness.

Gratitude doesn’t prevent the tears from falling.

We push through the darkness with a gratitude of sorts.

Gratitude provides the space to acknowledge the lack. I don’t know where my (then-)240-plus brothers and sisters are, and I sleep only in bits and fits, restless with thoughts of them and the soldiers working to save them with God’s help.

Yet, I’m grateful for the things I have. I’m grateful to be alive. I must let God know how much I appreciate all that brings light into this dark time.

The awareness that God is overseeing this operation we call life (and blessings are constantly and consistently being given to me for free) allows me to use what I am grateful for to balance and even merge the abundance of blessings with the despair we find ourselves in.

I can read, and I can choose to use my eyes and understanding of Hebrew to be comforted by reciting Tehillim for the hostages, their families and the soldiers.

I am in a warm home and thankful for that … yet am rhythmically drawn back to the chills the hostages or soldiers must feel at night, and it puts me in that state of paralysis. This propels me to give tzedaka to the IDF or someone collecting for the units that need extra clothing, and I feel comforted by the feeling of unity.

I have a family and can exercise patience and extra measures of love, letting go of needing to be right, and understanding without judging. Maybe my efforts towards shalom bayit can serve as a merit to help free the hostages to return to their families, alive and in peace.

I can work. And if I work—I will have money to help the soldiers.

I can hear. I can listen to someone who needs to talk—and in that merit, may Hashem hear our prayers.

I can keep going because once I make my mindset shift, God carries us through the rest of the way.

There is a segula that those that do not complain in Kislev have their tefilot answered.

Having gratitude merges worlds. WIth no negative thoughts, we become one.

In more ways than one. We become one with God. And we become one with each other.

There are no juxtapositions.

Gratitude doesn’t dispel the pain that sears through my heart!

Yet, the awareness that there is something greater than me orchestrating what needs to happen brings a quiet serenity and deep hope that everything will be OK.

And for this, I am eternally grateful.

We are so united now, we can do this together. As one.

One month. Thirty days. Without complaining.

It doesn’t mean we will have a why answered. Or a who. Or a what. When, where or how. It means we recognize that there is darkness, pain and suffering, and also blessings that can be recognized to light the night. For ourselves and for those around us.

Thirty days of rephrasing how we speak, and more importantly how we think.

And when we arrive to our chanukayiot—may God take all of our unspoken words—all of our refrained complaints, and use their merits to light up the nights for the hostages to clearly find their way back home, into the arms of their mothers, fathers and families, and make their hearts whole once again.

Vicky Krief lives in Edison with her family. Her son is currently serving in the IDF as a reservist.