Glimmers Amid the Grief: Still at War, Still Praying (and Writing) for Peace

Here we are, in October 2025 and still at war. I got myself in a pickle and panicked after writing a respectful rebuttal to an essay on a public forum. I reached out to the editor when I saw that my first and last name were listed to request that he take down the post, unless he could merely remove my name. He pulled the post down and we had a friendly back-and-forth email exchange.

Me: “What a world where good people can’t have different views and be safe. I’m heartbroken for every single Palestinian life snuffed out, but I also know that Hamas could have stopped this war at any time. At the same time, I think Netanyahu is biblical in his horrendousness. He might be the worst leader of the Jewish people in the past century or more. Just a terrible situation. And the settlers are thugs. So…it’s difficult. But Qatar and Iran have played a brilliant long game, and they have won in the court of world opinion, which breaks my heart. So much heartbreak. Anyway, thanks for all you do, for what you do. I appreciate it. I’m sure there’s a new poem percolating here. That’s what I do to help me process difficult things, and celebrate things, and just in general notice everything. Thank goodness for that practice!”

Him: “Thank you, Julie, for all you do. I realize the situation with Israel is difficult for my Jewish friends. Netanyahu is a monster. Hamas profits from keeping the situation on boil. But I have friends who are Palestinian, and they are suffering. My sympathy is with them, especially the children.”

Me: “Yes, me too, but my compassion flows like water in both directions. How can I not visualize the little coffins of the Bibas children, murdered in captivity? The images of their cute little faces are seared into my soul. So many other babies and children were murdered and burned beyond recognition that bloody ash filled black Sabbath. The raping of innocents before shooting them, the absolute depraved violence. All the while Hamas recorded their barbarity so we could witness their glee. The hostages, oh my God, still suffering unimaginable horror as their families are fighting for their release.”

Me, a little later: I just woke up from a much-needed early morning nap. It turns out, my friend and mentor James Crews saved me with his poem, reflection, and writing prompt in my inbox. So I turned this into a rough draft, sent it to him with gratitude, and cozied my lap and chest to my sleeping husband’s shoulder blades and bottom — spooning my angst into dreams. I wish our friends in the war had that luxury.

James Crews’ Invitation for Writing & Reflection: Borrow my phrase, “Grief is not the only thing in this room,” and see where those words lead you, staying open to any small glimmer of hope, joy, or beauty that calls to your attention.

Grief is not the only thing in this room at 5:30 am this chilly early September morning. There’s a black plastic fan whirring in the corner, joining the dark metal blades silently rotating on a stalk from the peak in the roof above the bed.

In the bed is my person. My boyfriend, love, friend and husband. We are getting to grow old together; that’s a big damn gift, right there, being able to watch him breathe, see his chest rise and fall, rise and fall.

Three big, huge furry dogs are here, too…Madeline so old it’s difficult for her to push her back end up to standing. I know from many dogs past how the last few years go, loving and caring for these bottomless love creatures before we give them the gift of their last breath.

Wellington will soon be bounding up to the bed, almost talking with his need to go out and pee, and zoom around in circles, all puppy energy, curiosity, fluffy bear with little brain that he is – really a perfect example of his breed, Old English Sheepdog. He’s our fourth one, each one a little stab of longing.

We’ve got our granddog Beatrice here, too, resting her big furry goofy Old English Sheepdog body on one of the three massive dog beds on the bedroom rug, hugging the wall. She’s still young enough to be an enthusiastic playmate for Wellington. It’s going to break my heart to separate them when it’s time for her to move back in with my son’s cute little family.

I’m up because of worry and fear, waiting for an email response from a kind stranger, which thankfully arrived at 5:25 a.m., letting me know that he removed my comment from his website as requested. Fear that I’d be doxed, or gunned down, for fighting words with facts. I didn’t intend to have my full name shown, all of me, in this dangerous world where offering a rebuttal in a tragic war can get innocent people, thousands of miles from the death and destruction, harmed mentally and physically. Grief for this, too, lays heavy on me.

Now that I may be safer than I was yesterday (but who knows?), I’ll scoot down under the covers until only the top of my head feels the wind, slow my breathing to slow my heartbeat, and try to rest.

Tonight the coyotes are howling
outside my window.
Haunting Coyote Moon, Full Moon
in winter, Whirling Wind Moon

Are the hostages in Gaza able
to glimpse the moon tonight
or are they deep in tunnels,
not knowing day from night.
Hard Moon, Cold Moon,
Wolf Moon

The citizens of Gaza
are mourning their dead,
under the same moon. Death Moon,
that’s what I imagine
both tribes would call the moon tonight:
Death Moon in Israel, in Gaza.
Would
that they could see the human in each

The coyotes outside my windows tonight
are howling at the moon, the Death Moon.
I pray, by the next full moon,
the bloodshed is a trickle.

May that be the Shared Pain Moon,
the slow road to healing.

A Hope Moon
may it be so.