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Sometimes I don't mind living vicariously. When a much loved bat bayit made aliyah last week, I had no compunction feeling joy and gratitude through her transformation. In fact, I feel grateful to be part of her estimable life.

Before I was able to feel my most recent rush of gratitude, however, I had had to deal with pragmatics. Specifically, Missy Youngest and I woke up at dark to catch a ride to the center of town, from where we took a Nefesh Bnefesh-sponsored hasaha to Ben Gurion Airport. We packed potato chips for Missy Youngest and goat yogurt for me, a Sefer Tehillim and a siddur, welcome signs for our new olah, and a few items that our beloved immigrant had requested.

Baruch Hashem, because my family has merited knowing many of this year's new citizens, even the cab driver who we called before 5 am was familiar with our routine; cab to city center, hasaha to airport, hasaha back to Jerusalem and then local buses to school and to home. When he picked us up, he didn't ask where we were going, but how many olim we were meeting.

That chilly morning, Missy Youngest and I were thankful that our hasaha had already arrived in Jerusalem. We boarded and snuggled, alternating between snatching bits of sleep and being inspired by the new sky, which Hashem was both creating and tinting as we rode.

At the correct time, we said Tefillah Haderech. Thereafter, throughout most of the rest of the trip, we were charmed by the seminary girls who sat directly behind us. Those young ladies spoke softly to each other about many matters, including about personal health and about shemittah observance.

At last we arrived at the terminal where we would greet the newcomers. In addition to us pedestrian guests, there were politicians, IDF officials and other individuals of social standing. There were members of the press, soldiers, and at least one musician, as well. The soldiers' presence was especially meaningful to our loved one, as she claimed that she felt that the young enlisted represented the country she was adopting.

Other aspects of the tempo of Israel were apparent in the terminal, too. In some corners, tallit-clad men called "shacharit, shacharit." In others, young people marked their faces with blue crayon, sketching Hebrew words and Magen Davids. In yet others, people were sipping hot beverages. Above that humanity were pasted, on the terminal's walls, giant montages of photos taken of olim arriving in the Holy Land. Around that humanity, the music of the nation played. Those Hebrew melodies ranged from "Shalom Aleynu" to "Machar," and later to "Hatikva."

Suddenly, a coterie of seminary girls, distinct from the ones who had sat behind us on the bus, ran into the hall. They wore, on their shirts, words of welcome in Hebrew and in English and claimed a section of the floor for their lively dances. Their exuberance buzzed the crowd.

Other comers hoisted their signs, in practice for the olim's landing. Homemade, heartfelt greetings sprouted on various canvases, in various media, with various shades of the same intent; all of us were glad to be in a situation where we were already of the land and where we were empowered to welcome our loved ones home.

In short time, we were given the cue to go outside to greet the shuttles which brought the arrivals from their plane. As one, we took pictures, waved placards and cried.

With deserved pomp, the new olim made their way through the alee formed by the soldiers. From infants, exhaustedly asleep in their buggies, to grand matrons wheeled forward into their new lives, the immigrants burst upon us.

There were enough hugs, smiles, and tears for everyone. Suitcases switched hands, the established folk eager to provide any small comfort. Thereafter, the hosts ran to furnish sandwiches, to point out bathrooms, to provide cell phone, or to otherwise yield any gentleness within their abilities. Tired olim slumped in appreciation around their friends and family.

Our own loved one borrowed a cell phone to make a special call. Once the connection was established, she began her conversation.

"Mom?" she offered.

There was a pause, likely a mirrored greeting from across the world.

Then our loved one added those incredulous words; "I'm here!"

It's so easy to get bogged in the grosser aspects of survival in this land. It is so easy to become occupied with financial, health, and personal growth issues. However, during sacred moments, such as when a new olah speaks the words that encapsulate the experience common to all of us, we are reminded why we are in Eretz Yisrael.

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Little Smile:

I have taken various of my children, in widely differing combinations, on my trips to greet olim. This past trip was Missy Youngest's third such event.

As we boarded the hasaha, she declared that I owed her an ice cream.

"Why?" I asked.

"Because Mommy, in Israel, Pa'am schlischit = glida!"

Silly me. Did I need my school age child to brief me on cultural norms; three times here isn't a charm, its dessert.