On Father’s Day, I was left to my own devices. My three sons got to spend the day with their father in the quaint city of Cooperstown, where they spent several hours at the Baseball Hall of Fame. Though I still think this was more of a belat­ed Mother’s Day gift to me than it was a gift to husband #1, I was more than happy to have a day where I was not playing the part of a refer­ee, throwing out half-empty water bottles, or yelling at anyone (and let us not forget spend­ing the day at the Hall of Fame).

Aside from walking 12 miles (not all at once, and don’t worry, I ate enough so the walking would have no effect on my weight) I went to see the film The Fault in Our Stars. This movie is based on the incredible, heart-wrenching novel by John Green. While reading this book, I cried more than I have in a while, which is a good thing. Son #1 saw me crying and actually asked if everything was okay. My tears drew empathy from my child who is try­ing his darnedest to separate from me before he leaves me for his “gap year.” (I really wish that meant he spent a year working in the Gap…) In between sobs, I kept telling him, “It’s the book, it’s the book; you have got to read this book.”

After unsuccessfully trying to find some­one to accompany me to the movie, I went alone. The film did not disappoint. I was bawl­ing my eyes out. It did the book justice, which usually does not happen when literature is translated to the big screen. It felt cathar­tic to cry over fiction. The excuses I got from the people who didn’t want to come with me were, “I have enough to cry over, I don’t want to cry when I go to a movie.” But those, I feel, are the best tears—the tears based on enter­tainment, not reality.

Though I try to make people laugh with my columns (sometimes successfully, and sometimes not so much), I have to be hon­est with all of you. I am finding it hard to sit here and write a column with my usu­al humor aka sarcasm and honesty when three beautiful boys are still missing. Every time I think of an amusing topic, my mind would just goes back to those boys. And their parents. And their siblings. And their grandparents. And their friends and neigh­bors and teachers. Where are they? Is there a chance, please God, that by the time this piece goes to print they would have been found and safe and back to spending Shab­bos with their families?

Every time I look at my three boys, even if they are throwing things at each other, it is un­bearable to think about those three beautiful boys who are missing. Those tears are based on truth, on a horrible, terrifying truth. Eyal, Naf­tali and Gilad. That is reality. I almost feel guilty thinking about it because who am I? I don’t know them or their families. Since their abduc­tions, Facebook (where I spend too much of my time) is filled with pictures of these kids…they are just kids. There was one photo from just a few days before of two of the three boys poised in a pyramid picture with their friends; just a reg­ular picture of kids enjoying a day at school. And then everything changes.

It is 2014, we have cell phone technolo­gy that can let us know if there is a police car on the highway, miles in front of us, and we cannot find these boys. I have watched their moms on the clips from Israeli television and cannot imagine where they get the strength to stand up, let alone speak out. Will it help? Dear God, will it help? Those are real tears that come from this. The unimaginable kind, the kind that comes from thinking thoughts that should never be thought. The kind that come from prayer and hope…and hopefully, laugh­ter will be soon to follow.

By Banji Latkin Ganchrow