In a few minutes, it will be October 7th. And in a very real sense, it has been October 7th every day for two years. Our lives have been changed so completely, it is as if it has never not been October 7th.

Tonight, I am one of thousands writing about this chilling date. There is nothing I can add that hasn’t already been said; my tears simply join those of Jews around the world—enough to flood the cities, the villages, the kibbutzim of Israel twice over. And still they flow.

Because the Jewish day begins at nightfall, it is already Sukkot—the festival when we build fragile huts and share meals beneath their open roofs with family and friends.

The roof of the sukkah is never complete. Stars can shine through. Rain can fall through.

And that is where hope lies: In a partial roof that cannot fully shield us from darkness, yet allows the sunlight to bathe us all the same.

I am told that perhaps twenty hostages are still alive in the dark tunnels beneath Gaza. I pray that one day soon—very, very soon—they will emerge into the light, into the arms of their loved ones, into the arms of a waiting nation that longs for their return.