This afternoon I traveled to Kever Rachel, Rachel’s tomb. The trip there was relatively quick, only about 20 minutes, and it flew by while one of our teachers, Menucha, gave us some history about the site and shared with us a story about the merit of our foremother, Rachel. It is interesting to note that she is not buried at Ma’arat HaMachpelah (the family burial plot –Abraham, Sarah, Isaac, Rebecca, Jacob and Leah are all buried there). Rachel passed away while the family was travelling and Jacob buried her, literally, on the side of the road. Joseph was very upset with his father’s decision and asked him why they couldn’t wait until they got to Ma’arat HaMachpelah. Jacob explained to him that in the future, when the Jewish people are in exile, they would travel along this road and pray at Rachel’s tomb. Rachel’s merit enabled her spirit to carry their prayers up to Gd with extra intensity. It it said that her soul weeps for her exiled children and that she prays directly to Gd on our behalf. Ironically, the first exiled Jew to pray at Rachel’s tomb turned out to be Joseph himself, after he had been sold by his brothers as a slave and was on his way to Egypt. Since then, Jews and Muslims from all over the world have come to her burial place to pray, especially during the high holidays.I was very curious about what Rachel’s tomb was going to look like, expecting something like an ancient cave with dirt floors, maybe a shepherd or two in linen robes. Driving up to the site, there were two cement walls running alongside the road and at the entrance there was a watchtower where two armed gunmen sit (although we found them hanging out on the steps to the parking lot, their guns draped casually across their laps). When you first enter the stone building that houses the grave, there is a large handwashing stand (washing hands is a ritual of purification that is a part of many aspects of Jewish life), and then a long corridor with steps leading down to the gravesite. Heading through the stone passageway, the spiritual energy of the place was palpable. At the end of the hall were two separate sections, one for men and one for women (as is customary in places of prayer). Above the men’s section is a beautiful sign that reads, “Kever Rachel” in Hebrew. The grave itself is not visible from the women’s section, as it is blocked off by a mechitza (partition) that separates it from the men’s section (I would have liked to see the grave, but I realized that even with no mechitza, I probably wouldn’t have been able to see it anyway through the throng of women around me). I was lucky enough to find a seat on a bench against the wall, where I could pray in relative comfort while the room became more and more packed.One of the most moving images in the women’s section is a lace Parochet (torah cover) that was hanging on the mechitza. The material actually came from a wedding dress that belonged to Na’ama Appelbaum. She was a young girl who, on the eve of her wedding, Na’ama went with her father to pick up some extra place cards from the wedding hall and then stopped to pick up some coffee on Emek Refa’im, a popular street in the German Colony (interestingly, Shuie and I almost ended up living right next to it). While she was there, a terrorist bombing killed her and her father. Her family took her wedding dress back to the seamstress and had it remade into a Parochet. The tragedy of such a thing is so unspeakable, and yet it is fitting that this tribute should be with Rachel, who mourns beyond consolation for all of her children.I wasn’t sure how I would feel in a place with so much history; sometimes, despite what I understand intellectually, these things seem too remote to feel personal. And yet, today I found myself moved by image of Rachel as the mother who watches over all of her children and her children’s children. She is my grandmother. I am her grandchild. When I thought of her that way, the prayers came easily and I could feel in my heart that they were heard.The latest development in Yonah’s world: the Bug has a bug. Sadly, little man threw up at Rivka’s today and then later when I was feeding him dinner. He’s been kvetchy all day and definitely not his regular, happy self. We may have to take another visit to the doctor tomorrow, but in the meantime, any suggestions for caring for a buggy Bug are most welcome.One thing that I find amusing here in Jerusalem are the random typos I find on seemingly important signs. For example, one sign on the bus reminded to me “Fasten my seat balt!” and another told me that hanging a right would take me down Nachaliel Ally (Alley). Guess no one thought of spellcheck.