I recently returned from a three-day retreat for bereaved parents, organized by OneFamily, at a five-star hotel overlooking the Sea of Galilee. The hotel, with its floor-to-ceiling windows, offered sweeping views of the mountains, the serene blue waters, and the infinity pool blending into the horizon. It was a setting of breathtaking beauty—an almost cruel contrast to the depth of pain carried by the people inside.
On Shabbat evening, the dining room was filled with elegantly dressed couples. Some were smiling, some spoke softly, and some sat quietly, lost in thought. To a stranger, it might have looked like a typical weekend escape. But underneath the surface, a shattering truth: every single person there had lost a child—either in war or to acts of terror. 200 couples, gathered together in sorrow and survival.
Throughout the weekend, OneFamily provided full-day programming, offering a choice of art therapy workshops, inspiring speakers, therapeutic prayer services, musical performances, and carefully curated trips. Healing happens in layers, and at this retreat, there were opportunities to meet each person where they were.
During Friday night services, a woman sat down beside me. When she learned I worked for OneFamily, her face lit up with emotion. She told me her child was murdered 22 years ago—and that OneFamily had “saved her life.” I heard these words again and again throughout the retreat: saved my life. Words too precious to ever take lightly.
I met an artist who hadn’t touched a sketchpad since October 7th, the day her son and his girlfriend were murdered. In our art class, she picked up charcoal and began to draw for the first time since that nightmare. She would draw, and cry, draw and cry—her grief pouring out in black lines and wet tears. It was painful, raw, and beautiful to witness her first tentative steps back into life.
At lunch, I sat with a former Egged bus driver whose daughter was killed when a terrorist bombed an Egged bus—his bus company, his second home. Not only did he lose his child, but his sense of safety, trust, and belonging was shattered forever. He has not worked since. Some wounds are invisible but bleed every day.
Around a roundtable, I met a group of bereaved parents who first found each other 19 years ago. Bonded by tragedy, they now lean on each other through dark humor, long hugs, and shared understanding. They welcomed the newly bereaved, offering what few others can: a living example that survival is possible, even when the heart is shattered beyond recognition.
One father, a child of a Holocaust survivor, said grimly, “We are living through another Holocaust.” Another parent offered a powerful analogy: “One day, you are a soft, perfect roll. The next, you are a bagel—there is a gaping hole in your center. It will never be filled. But you learn how to live as a bagel.”
Not all the stories were from long ago. One mother I met had lost her husband and eldest son on October 7th. Her three surviving children are deeply traumatized—too fragile for therapy just yet. So she comes to learn how to be their healer, how to carry her family’s brokenness with grace until they are strong enough to carry it themselves.
I saw a woman with an oxygen tank making her way slowly around the hotel. I didn’t get the chance to speak with her, but the sight of her—the unbearable double burden of illness and grief—reminded me how fragile we all are, and how much some are asked to endure.
I walked with another couple who had each lost a spouse to cancer before finding each other, only to now lose a son to terror. No one is spared; terror does not discriminate.
Among the volunteers was a retired educator, an 80-year-old woman whose daughter survived a bus bombing and whose grandson survived a car-ramming attack, both left permanently injured. Now, she volunteers for OneFamily, giving back to the very organization she says gave her family hope. While at the retreat, she discovered that four of her former students had lost children, and together they cried.
Walking through that hotel, you knew: everyone you passed carried a weight heavier than we could bear to imagine. And yet, gratitude and hope glimmered among the broken pieces. Again and again, people came up to thank me—not for myself, but for OneFamily, and for the services that held them up when the rest of the world seemed to crumble.
One mother shared with me how her faith was tested during the excruciating three weeks her son was missing, his fate unknown. But faith, she said, is like any relationship—it waxes and wanes, but true faith endures. I had prayed for her son daily as his story made headlines. When I told her, she cried. Somehow, knowing that strangers cared enough to pray gave her strength.
OneFamily is not just an organization—it is a lifeline. We provide emotional, financial, and legal support to Israel’s victims of war and terror. Our work is not glamorous, and it is not easy. But it is essential. It saves lives.
Today, Israel faces a crisis of grief unlike any before. Thousands of new victims are entering our care. We are scaling up dramatically to meet this unprecedented need. But we cannot do it alone. Help us show these shattered families that even in their deepest pain, they are never truly alone.
To learn more about OneFamily, please visit OneFamilyFundUS.org.
