It was a soft day. One that would allow him to walk with out hunching himself into his coat. He walked along singing the familiar song under his breath. The wind whipped around him, ripping the sound away from the air so that any who walked by would not hear, just see. His eyes were solemn, his body rigid with anticipation and fear. His face was creased with the lines of a man who’d been through much. His eyes did not crinkle at the ends from a smile. Rather, they held a sort of sadness that many would recognize, but few would know. His body was weathered; his mind old. The heart in his chest pulsed with a heavy sound, thick and off beat. His feet scuffed the sidewalk as he walked. It was a slow pace, but he knew where he was going. He had all the time in the world to reach this destination.

The song he sang had a gentle tune, one that this man had heard often as a child. One that he’d sung every day of his life--even through the most horrible of his days. A song that had meaning… that held a connection within it’s foreign words. A connection that when heard by an understanding person, it would link you for that moment, even if you never saw them again.

“These words” it is known, are to be spoken “when you lie down, and when you rise up.” In the face of fate, many will sing it. When all else fails, it is something like this that can give you some sort of hope or maybe some sort of link with someone else for five more minutes. But there was no trace of hope, no trace of happiness on this man’s face. His coat was worn and tethered at the ends, but all in all put together. He wore simple and modest clothes, not asking for much the majority of his life.

He continued down the quiet street, looking for his destination. Suddenly his feet stopped, and his breath caught. He turned his body to face the large brick building. His breathing returned quickly and unevenly as his heart worked harder to keep him moving. He closed the gap between himself and a large wooden door. A weak hand reached for the knocker, pale and thin. Three knocks, and before the fourth, the door opened. A small women with an apron around her white button up shirt and plaid ankle length skirt stood in the doorway. A small business smile rested on her middle aged features. She looked up at the man and raised her brows, the smile gently moving from her features.

The woman’s brows now knit together in thought as she took two steps back, holding her arm out to show him he could come in. The old man nodded and waved his hand absently in her direction as a greeting. He walked down the hallway, the walls for the most part bare. He heard the little conversations coming from a large room just down the hall. He paused, his feet stopping on the wooden floor. He listened carefully to the noises coming from the large room, hearing little voices and older voices.

His feet moved again, taking steps that he was not aware he was taking. He slowed as he turned the corner, facing an open room with three tall windows on the right wall. There were little children sitting on the couch and many chairs in the room, along with some older children sitting on the floor and standing in one of the corners. The old man scanned their faces. They all looked like children, all similar in some way.

A sigh escaped him as he looked at all the faces. His mumbles from before came back to him, quietly dancing from his mouth. He did not have to sing loudly for sixteen of the children to look up at him with small smiles on their faces. A few of them tilted their head, brows knitting together. The old man sang his words a bit louder, starting over every time he got to the end of the sung part. Some of the young children smiled at the only moment of familiarity, and started to sing along:

“Sh'ma Yis'ra'eil Adonai Eloheinu Adonai echad.
Barukh sheim k'vod malkhuto l'olam va'ed.”

"Hear, O Israel! The LORD is our God! The LORD is One!"

Blessed be the Name of His glorious kingdom for ever and ever.

All of the children had joined in with him, he continued on to the reciting of the rest of the Shema. The young children were happy to sing along, but the old man noted sadly that the older and more aware of them mumbled quietly with solemn features. They went on:

V'ahav'ta eit Adonai Elohekha b'khol l'vav'kha uv'khol naf'sh'kha uv'khol m'odekha.
V'hayu had'varim ha'eileh asher anokhi m'tzav'kha hayom al l'vavekha.
V'shinan'tam l'vanekha v'dibar'ta bam
b'shiv't'kha b'veitekha uv'lekh't'kha vaderekh uv'shakh'b'kha uv'kumekha
Uk'shar'tam l'ot al yadekha v'hayu l'totafot bein einekha.
Ukh'tav'tam al m'zuzot beitekha uvish'arekha…

When he’d finished, the man felt himself hunch slightly. Though unhealthy and weary, though in desperate need of rest, he’d felt an urge and a need to come to the orphanage. He looked at all of the children without homes and families… He looked at all the faces of survivors… And then at the faces of the survivors who had not truly survived. The children who’s minds would forever be capable of holding onto the memories that would haunt them for years to come. The memories and happenings that would carve their futures. Though one should never let one’s past define him, sometimes it is inevitable. And the old man stood frozen, seeing all of the faces, the ones who were confused, or uninterested. The ones who were solemn with acknowledgement. The ones who were happy with familiarity.

He felt his heart finally settle in him with the weight of sadness, fear, anger, happiness and longing. But he also felt power. He felt the power of his survival and strength. He felt a fulfillment within himself as he looked at this collage of people. All that he had left, his hopes, beliefs and life, would be preserved in these children. He felt found.