“I don’t believe in stars.” The innocent thought, relatable to any child growing up in New York. They’re always told stars exist; after all, they can only get Chanukah presents after the emergence of three stars. However, they think, “Are these things, stars, actually real?” From a child’s vantage point, all that exist are clouds and airplanes. Especially when you live a 12-minute drive from America’s ninth-largest airport, JFK.

For a long time, the strongest connection I had to stars was from an old nursery rhyme. “Star light, star bright, the first star I see tonight. I wish I may, I wish I might, have this wish I wish tonight.” Stars were mystical. Dreamstuff. As I got taller and my eyes developed, though, suddenly, there was nuance and detail. I could see stars.

Over the last 275 days, I have experienced a similar sort of development. When El Al flight 002 touched down on August 29, 2022, Israel was little more than a vacation spot to me. Seminary was just a figment of my imagination; how could I understand what I had never lived? However, over the course of the 10 months that followed, my eyes were opened to a beautiful constellation of ideas, opinions, and experiences. Each one a star. Combined, an unbelievable display of light.

Ironically, when I think back on significant moments from this year, I see them reflected in the night sky. No, this is not just me being poetic (although I do feel like I’m basically Shakespeare at this moment). Rather, it’s because I spent a serious amount of time on the MMY rooftop porch.

A few weeks into classes, my friends and I discovered the MMY dorm’s massive, empty rooftop with 360 degree views of Yerushalayim, and it quickly became my favorite spot. After any major event, we would climb up all 6 flights of stairs, look up at the sky, attempt to find the Big Dipper and North Star, and reflect. Those stars witnessed the early weeks of homesickness. Birthdays, holidays, attacks, and miracles. Whatever it was, it was discussed on the roof, and it all became okay. Whatever was going on downstairs, down the road, or across the world didn’t matter. It was just the stars. It’s a humbling feeling, looking up at a pitch black sky flecked with millions of tiny dots, and knowing that each speck of the Divine artistry is bigger than your whole world. I think that’s part of the reason why the sky held so much meaning to me. Whatever the reason, it did.

On Lag B’Omer, MMY had an outdoor kumzitz/concert, and, naturally, as any logical sky-lover would, I looked up. I allowed myself to zone out for a minute and think about the shockingly delicious hamburger I had for dinner, but I was quickly snapped back into focus. The words of Im Eshkachech Yerushalayim pulled me in.

Suddenly, I was overrun with emotion, knowing that in a few short weeks from then (and even fewer from now) I would be back in Woodmere, needing the constant reminder that if I forget Yerushalayim, my right hand should be forgotten. I looked at the stars, located the Big Dipper, and sighed.

As the song continued, more memories were evoked. Thoughts of screaming to L’Shanah Habah B’Yerushalayim at every chagigah in twelfth grade nostalgically resurfaced. This sentimentality wasn’t rooted in my deep longing to be back in high school (although I did love that experience). Rather, I was jealous of myself from one year ago. The self that knew, without a doubt, L’Shanah Habah B’Yerushalayim. Next year in Jerusalem.

Sitting under the holiest sky in the world, smelling bonfires in the distance and hearing the Kol Torah and shirah of a beautiful kumzitz, I had my first bout of homesickness. Not for Central Avenue, but for Yerushalayim. When I step off the plane in Jamaica Bay, New York on June 12, will I be able to say L’Shanah Habah B’Yerushalayim with 100% certainty? Will I know, without a doubt, that on June 12, 2024 I will, once again, be zocheh to watch the fulfillment of Zecharia HaNavi’s promise of Od Yeshvu Zekainim Uzekainot B’Rechovot Yerushalayim? I don’t know. I felt a tear slip down my face.

I looked down, eager to wipe away any sadness from the chag, and when I looked back up at what I assumed to be the North Star, I was, once again, struck by a memory. I was no longer sitting on the floor of a Yerushalayim yard; I was in the audience of Finding Neverland on Broadway with my extended family, watching the incredible performance of “How Peter Became Pan.” In my emotional daze, one line hit me like a ton of bricks. “Just take the second star on the right, straight ahead till morning light.” A promise of unity and ever present connection. “No matter where you go,” J.M. Barrie told his loved one, “just look up at the stars and I will be there.”

With this line, I took a deep breath and joined the rest of MMY, who was now dancing. I realized that no matter where I go, if I look up at the sky, I can see the same stars as Yerushalayim. Maybe the Big Dipper will be at a different angle and the North Star will likely be harder to locate. But, they’ll still be there. Behind the New York fog, I will be able to look up at the stars and imagine that I am, once again, home. Star light, star bright.

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