Many people would have laughed at a headline like this. They would have preferred a headline like this:
Why don't I like Lag BaOmer?
And they would find plenty of reasons why they didn't like Lag BaOmer.
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Why really? Because of the bright clothes that turn black, because they have to look after the children, because they hate the smell of soot and kerosene, because they can't stand just one day off in the middle of their lives, because the children nag about wanting to go to Meron and they're afraid, and for countless other reasons.
And I love it.
How is it that I love? Don't I have the responsibility to keep the children near the giant bonfire that seems to be about to consume us? Do I selfishly love the smell of fire and burning? Don't the embers of the fire dirty the laundry on my clothesline? Doesn't the day off that suddenly ended torment me too? Aren't my boys nagging to go to Meron with their friends, while I fear what's coming?
Indeed, for me too, the smell was the same, the danger was the same, the fear was the same, and the setting was the same.
But for me, there is one thing that outweighs everything.
Ever since I was a child, I would join my parents on a trip to pray in Meron.
My grandfather, Rabbi Zisha Brandoin, zt"l, was a man of Meron in every way. He would travel a month before Lag B'Omer until he reached Zion and tell stories of supreme holiness upon his return.
When I was a child, we no longer rode donkeys like Grandpa, but we also didn't travel as easily as we do today.
So we would cuddle up on the tiring road and be excited to reach a place we wouldn't get to every day. This excitement is woven into my bones.
Lag BaOmer without a prayer in Meron – it is not Lag BaOmer for me. I don't think a single Lag BaOmer has passed without me visiting the place, except for the Lag BaOmer where my personal Shimon was born.
The emotions that fill my entire being as Lag BaOmer arrives - erase the entire blacklist.
The holy man of God calls me to come to his abode.
He calls you too.
Do you hear?
