They were sitting around on Shabbos afternoon, when the conversation turned serious. The boy who was hit with a bat before Purim is the nephew of my son's friend. He is in critical condition, and my son was upset.
"Imagine how the boy who hit him feels," my daughter said.
There were sighs all around as that thought sank in.
"It's like Suri Brisk's chosson," she continued. "Imagine how he feels."
I couldn't even begin to imagine.
"I can't believe she's gone." She sighed deeply. "She was just a couple of years older than me. Just a regular girl from a regular family. It doesn't make sense."
Someone I've been working very closely with every day is now fighting for her life. She was fine just a short time ago. She's just a regular woman with a regular family. With a husband and children who need her.
It doesn't make sense.
As I write this, I wonder if I spend too much time focusing on the things that don't make sense to me - on the times I don't see Hashem - the times when He is hidden.
"Why didn't you make kreplach this year?" my little boy asked me on Purim. Kreplach are traditionally eaten on Purim because the hidden filling is reminiscent of the hidden nature of the Purim miracle.
"I made stuffed cabbage," I told him. "It's the same idea. The meat filling is hidden inside the cabbage."
"Right," he agreed, "hamantashen too."
"Not really." I wasn't sure. "The filling in hamantashen isn't hidden. It's peeking out a bit."
"Like the Purim nes!" He smiled as he explained. "Hashem wasn't completely hidden. He was peeking out a bit."
There are times I do see Him, of course. There are times when the miracles are so obvious. I only need to look at my sweet granddaughter, at each of my children, at all the good I'm blessed with, to see Him peeking out. It's easy to see Him then.
But I need to take the message of Purim and discover Hashem even when He is concealed.
Even when it doesn't make sense.