About the author: Chana Wolfson grew up in Cincinnati and is a member of Northern Hills Synagogue. She works at Hebrew Union College. Her sister made aliyah several years ago and lives in Jerusalem with Chana's two nieces, ages two and four. They frequently ride on the #78 bus line, the site of a recent stabbing. During Chana’s parents’ recent visit to Israel, her mother took the #78 bus that came immediately before the one that was attacked.

"Shabbat shalom" is my usual conversation closer Thursday through Sunday. What a beautiful blessing for my friends and family! But this week, as those words leave my lips, they feel like a desperate plea for mercy, an angry demand of G-d in heaven, even though I don't merit making a request. "Enough! Give us a Shabbat of peace!" That's not how I want to talk to G-d.

But I can't stop that desperate emotion as I read the headline, "Two Israeli children, women suffer burns in West Bank fire bombing attack." My sister and two nieces live in Armon ha-Natsiv. As I read, I silently recite "Rachel doesn't own a car. Rachel doesn't own a car." But the summary at the top says a four year old is in moderate condition. My niece is four years old.

I read on. What if Rachel rented a car? Why would she be in the West Bank anyway? It's too late to call Israel; it's already Shabbat. I would have heard if something happened.

A mercifully short 30 words into the main article, I read that the other two victims are 11 and 44 years old. I only realize I was holding my breath when I finally inhale. My family is safe for now, but none of us with family in Israel is safe from the fear, the weeks of heart and breath stopping moments when the phone rings with an overseas number or when the newspaper headline matches our family or their neighborhood. Nor are we safe from the guilty relief when we realize that while we are blessed this time, it's in the face of another family's tragedy.