My family and I were in Israel when Hamas attacked.

This photo was taken the day the war began. Vaguely annoyed that only one child out of three was cooperating, I couldn’t have been more oblivious of the state of Israel that morning. Meanwhile, horrors were being inflicted upon human beings just 120 miles south. We were about to take a crash course on trusting God in a crisis. TL;DR—We were present in a country at war for 72 hours, and our escape was nothing less than God’s gentle and caring provision.

As it happens, I felt like I should start a blog before we left on our trip. I assumed it was to promote the book I’ve written, but then my editor told me—in no uncertain terms—that I must sit down and write about my experience in Israel, that I would be able to get to the heart of the issue. I squinted at her. The thought hadn’t occurred to me and didn't sound appealing. I had a deadline in two weeks. Working on fiction since my return had been a cathartic escape from sorting through a mess of emotions and conclusions from our trip. I had just started this blog, though, and life experience has taught me that so-called coincidences are nothing of the sort.

I hesitate to write about my experience in Israel because so many people haven’t gotten their prayers answered the way they’ve been desperately hoping for. Getting nos or waits from God can be brutal and devastating. But what would the world be if we only heard the no stories and never the yes? I don’t understand why my family got so many yeses. I have no answers, but I want you to know what God did. I want everyone to know. Come and see what the Lord has done.

In February, Brit and I decided we wanted to think and pray about where to take our family next. Out of the baby phase, every destination had become more manageable, but it was important to us to use our international travel intentionally, far more so than we have in the past. After canceling a trip to Croatia for this fall (long story), I felt like we should take the kids to Israel. An odd choice—the younger two wouldn’t remember the trip, and plenty of imagination is required for most of the sights there. Further and more importantly to me, Brit and I had already been there (photo is from our trip in 2014), and we’d never repeated a destination. Ever. It’s not my M-O to “waste” an opportunity to see a new place. Yet … I had this feeling. Later, when Brit was taking a day off to pray, he texted me “Yes to Israel.” Mom wanted to come along—even better—so I made the plans. On our first trip, we visited as backpackers. We would do a similarly self-led trip this time but with bigger apartments, actual suitcases, and a minivan. Leading up to the trip, we kept praying that God would allow each of us to experience him in a special way.

… Yeah, we prayed that.

On a long-anticipated Thursday in October we stumbled in from a disheartening journey (kids did great—airlines did not) to a beautiful apartment overlooking the Sea of Galilee. We had every expectation of driving to Jerusalem that Sunday. We’d never make it. Saturday we wandered into a restaurant to escape the blazing heat and guiltily enjoy some pizza and chicken fingers. (We loved eating our body’s weight in hummus and pita, but finding good American food abroad is a comforting treat.) The kind Arab restaurant owner showed his phone to Brit, terrified. “Have you seen this?”

And just like that. War.

Brit downloaded an app on his phone that alerted him when missiles were in Israel’s airspace near our location. That's a thing. He tells me some five thousand missiles were fired at Israel during the days we were there.

I prayed desperately for next steps. I asked every friend who texted that first day to pray for guidance. Many times in my life I’ve felt led to do one thing or another, but this time … I just didn’t know. I spent hours in the middle of the night (jetlag * a busy mind = sleeplessness) making a half-baked but quasi-feasible plan to escape across the border to Jordan. I would present it to Brit in the morning … and then I learned the borders had been closed. The Tel Aviv airport was targeted again and again. We were stuck, but also so thankful to be two hours north from the fighting. The host we'd hoped to stay with in Jerusalem said his people would be in mourning. He was right. Nearly everything shut down.

Flights were canceled by the dozens each day. Most foreign airlines stopped sending planes. (Makes sense. Missiles in the sky don’t make for a great work environment.) Brit got us on a rare remaining flight … and it was canceled ten minutes later. For any flights that still existed, seats for two days out were astronomically priced, almost non-existent, and disappearing at an alarming rate. But three more days in a country at war was hard to wrap my head around. Israel wasn’t winning yet. The borders weren’t re-secured. Brit was very concerned about driving to the airport for a flight. Tel Aviv was near the active fighting. Terrorists were still getting across the border. The airport was a major target and suffered consistent missile fire. Was it better to stay north where it was quiet but ominous or to drive towards an active war zone with hope of a plane actually showing up to take us somewhere—anywhere—else?

And that’s where our people come in. Our phones were inundated with texts and emails. Are you safe?! Beautiful scriptures, an offer to contact senators and bang down doors, checkins, and encouragement. We texted the same idea in different texts. Pray. Pray for guidance. Pray we get out of here. Pray. And they did. Our church sent out an email asking for prayer. Our friends and family asked their small groups and Bible studies to pray. Everyone prayed, and this time God said yes.

We found a brand new flight added by an Israeli airline—promising. It was rapidly filling and I just knew. "Brit, we have to get on this flight. This is the one." It was a race against time to get six people and their birthdays typed into an iPhone in time to snag our seats … only to find that US passports weren’t an option on the dropdown. What?! After our back and forth and desperate attempts to circumvent the issue, Brit chose US Outlying Islands and booked. We risked thousands of dollars in the off-chance we could adjust our home country later, something I feared would be impossible. Our confirmation came just in time. Later, the airline—oddly (read: miraculously)—allowed us to change our passport country during checkin.

The flight was so new it wasn’t even searchable on google. Was this real? As we read our Bibles on the balcony in the evening, we saw lightning in the sky. Wait nope, those were explosions. Missiles started arriving up north which answered Brit’s question. This was no longer a “quiet” place to stay. Going to the airport Tuesday felt like the right move. Brit searched for a suitable bomb shelter within running distance from our third floor apartment. The app and the air sirens would give us 60-90 seconds warning to run for cover should the Iron Dome fail to shoot that particular missile down. We asked the kids to keep their shoes in case we needed to “get away from the bullies.”

We waited and waited for our new flight on Tuesday. We swam three times at the terrible beaches on the Sea of Galilee. Litter is a major problem, and trash and glass hid everywhere on the rocky beaches. Not great for littles with no water shoes, but anything to get some energy out so we didn’t drive the people below us bonkers with the stomping and running and yell-talking. Why do our children talk so loudly? But it was a gift. They were unaware. They were happy and playing and running amok like nothing was amiss.

We walked to the playground down the street and watched man after man solemnly walk into the synagogue next door. Were they meeting for prayer? Passersby walked distraught. An old man sat on the bench and shook his head at his phone. A mom stared at hers while one of her kids played soccer and the other sat in the splits. Out of habit, I smiled at strangers. They squinted at me. There’s nothing to smile about. The Israeli people were devastated, terrified. Their nephew, their son, their husband was going to war. Atrocities were being perpetrated on their soil. The eternally burning hatred their neighbors felt for them was put into action. Our Airbnb host let us stay another two days after I nearly begged. I learned later that she was hesitant to agree because she wanted to offer for her family members down south to come to safety. A gut punch—I had no idea. And her two sons were going to war.

We read our Bibles like they held the antidote to our fears. They did. God whispered to us about surrender, about trust. He was the boss. He got to pick. In the car we listened to “Even If”, “To Not Worship You”, and “Heart of the Father”. He was there, prodding us toward the goal he had in mind.

When Tuesday finally came, our flight hadn’t been canceled. In fact, it had been moved two hours earlier. We’ve never seen that before. I updated my kind host that we still had tickets. She responded with a final haunting message in translated English. “Wish I had [flights].” The dear people we met were stuck, terrified, grieving, at a loss. This was their home. Our time in Israel had been mere days, but they would live in fear until the conflict was resolved. Probably far longer. Our hearts broke for the Israeli people. They need their God.

Time to drive to Tel Aviv. Traveling south on the highway, towards the violence and horrors, we prayed aloud and silently. We sang songs about God’s care and provision. “You Are God Alone” had become our theme song for the trip, and the kids cheerily asked for it again and again. Eerie anticipation was thick in the front of the van, but the kids prattled about in the back, unaware as ever. Throughout those three days, they knew there were bullies being mean, they knew Mama and Daddy had to work on their phones sometimes, but they remained fully ignorant of the weight of our situation—a prayer answered again and again.

As a cautionary measure, Brit left our van in the short-term parking lot rather than returning it properly to the rental car company. If the airport became unsafe, we could run to our getaway vehicle. We couldn’t risk it being tied up if we needed it. It was worth the likely expenses we’d incur in fees and time on the phone to have an escape plan. He left cash in the front seat to cover parking, and we emerged from the parking garage. A lady walked nearby, and Brit asked how she was. “I’m picking up my son who’s going to war. I’ve been better.” Our stomachs dropped with her devastation and we silently pleaded in prayer for her barely grown boy.

The airport was a chaotic mess of escapees, waiting in haphazard lines while pushing mountains of luggage and soothing kids in strollers. I felt an inexplicable peace as we stood in that first line. This is where we’re supposed to be. Brit must have felt the same, because he spoke kindly to the people pushing in from every side, with a supernatural contentment so different from those around him. He offered our kids’ copious snacks to the other parents.

Hours of waiting in that airport, much of it staring out the windows at the sky. No missiles yet. Our gate changed three times as our flight was delayed again and again. One of our gates sat next to a bomb shelter. I’m sure there must be many more in the airport, but this one was a glorified handicap restroom. Would we be cramming our kids into this room with countless strangers?

My faith cracked when a missile flew mere miles from our location. Our original flight out of Israel had been canceled like nearly every other flight. If this one didn’t pan out, we were sitting ducks—nowhere to stay, no way out. When Brit mentioned hostages in the news, I lost my mind. “This plane is never leaving, is it? We’re never getting out of this hellhole.” I nearly cried, but I squashed it down. I couldn’t betray my emotions lest the kids look up from their iPads. Brit held me and prayed for me and I came back around. We were on God’s timeline. He wasn’t surprised or overwhelmed. He would provide. He had thus far in every way. And if He didn’t, He was still good. He was the boss.

As we waited for the ninth hour, now to board a plane I could hardly believe was visible out the window, I looked around. Almost every passenger was traveling with young children. Apparently everyone but us was Israeli. Roscoe was playing a tractor game on his iPad and set it on the floor to share with a nearby kid. More joined the circle, taking turns and watching the American kid’s screen. I’m proud of Roscoe for sharing so readily, for unknowingly showing those kids what Brit and I silently said to everyone we saw. We’re with you. We’re so sorry this is happening to your country. We bonded to the Israeli people permanently. They have three new prayer lovers in their corner.

Delays upon delays, but the plane actually pulled back from the jetway. The flight attendant informed us of the procedure should a missile arrive, and it hit me. Are we going to get out of here without a single missile alert? Without a single instance of picking up our kids as we bolted through the airport to a shelter? Without our kids ever having to understand the gravity of our situation? Without the ground rattling beneath us a single time? There were countless missiles the day before. There would be more after we left. But God, in his mercy and kindness, spared us from a single one. He had us on just the right flight such that we were present during a quiet spot, during absolutely no missile fire on the airport. He kept us safe—not only from harm, but from the loss of our kids’ innocence.

Takeoff. We were airborne to Athens. Just a two-hour flight and the kids wouldn’t miss a night of sleep. We would have taken absolutely any flight, so for the one we were given to be 1) so manageable for the kids and 2) such a comfortable destination was yet another mercy. I had reached out to Airbnb hosts in Athens the day before asking if I could conditionally book since I couldn’t risk hundreds of dollars on nonrefundable bookings with flight cancelations as they were. Two of the three were kind enough to agree, but it hadn’t felt real. I didn’t even bother looking for a rental car until we were a few hours from arriving.

Landing in Athens was an indescribable relief. The quiet, stoic Israelis burst into a round of applause. Against all odds, we had escaped a war zone. Brit and I skipped like little kids through the Athens airport, arms out in freedom. God said yes.

Our Athens Airbnb was a vineyard estate. Four acres with a swimming pool. Paid for with the refunds I never expected to get. I could hardly compute the gift. Athens was so much better than going straight home. God knew it would be. If we'd gone home, I would have had piles of household tasks. Brit would have gone back to work. Instead, Mom was such a beautifully humble helper (as she was the entire trip), whisking off our laundry, cooking before I'd even thought that far ahead, leaving the kitchen pristine after every meal. She sent Brit and me on two dates, and we played and laughed. God said yes and then provided us a time of celebration, of gratitude, of recovery. There wasn’t a single detail he didn’t attend to. Athens was a time of true rest for me and even more for Brit. He lounged and read by the pool—life-giving decompression after his harrowing time of desperate prayer that God would protect his family. He called Budget to let them know about our rule-breaking and where to find the rental car. Another mercy—they were kind and understanding of our situation.

Was all of this an accident that God bailed us out of? Like “Not a great time, kids. Let’s see if we can’t get you out of a bind.” No. I don’t think so. I think He wanted us there. It was bootcamp training on the very things I’ve been learning from motherhood. Surrender of fear, of control, of my insufficiency. Trust in his care, his intricate provision, his mercy. My Bible study is on 1 Samuel this semester, and my homework while in Israel was about David fleeing from Saul. Repeatedly, David had to surrender his fear, his desire to take matters into his own hands. Repeatedly, David asked God for the next little step and then the next little step. It couldn’t have been more relevant. It couldn’t have been an accident.

Sometimes prayers aren’t answered this way. I ache to think of those still waiting, of those grieving. And yet I’m utterly convinced that for every no and wait there are a thousand yeses we could easily miss. I’m utterly convinced that prayer matters, that God responded to the hundreds praying for us and sent mercy after mercy in the intricate, intimate way only He could. Not because we are good, but because He is. It's a small rebellion against evil to tell of this time God said yes, yes, yes. Send me a message—I'd love to hear yours. — Added January 2025: Since this experience of profoundly answered prayer, I've been learning more on the subject. Read about how prayer is not a cop-out, how to see God's answers to prayer, and my prayers about how God might want to use me. I'm finally publishing the book about responding to fear and God's kind orchestration. Safe to say the experience in Israel made an enormous impact on its contents. Still very much on this theme of trust and obedience, God's been nudging me lately about faithfulness and half-steps.