Last month marked the 15th anniversary of my aliyah to Israel. The children who still live at home with me are a decidedly surly bunch and when I suggested that, together, we do something special to mark the day, their suggestions included “Give me the car so I can visit some neat friends I met on a beach up north!”; “Go away with your friends, Mom, since they’re also emotional types”; “Give us the house for a party!”; and “Don’t you want to get married or something, Mom? You’re sounding kind of lonely.”

Still determined to celebrate this red-letter day with an activity that would, hopefully, provide perspective and meaning, I was drawn to a posted notice that made all the niggling comments dissipate. I called the offices of Nefesh B’Nefesh (Soul to Soul) in Jerusalem and said, “I’m a journalist. I’d like to cover the arrival of the next planeload of western immigrants.”

And as soon as you can say ‘Edmund R. Murrow,’ I was assured that a press pass and information packet would be waiting for me at the arrival gate.

I arrived a few minutes after 8 a.m. and was whisked past the long and jovial queue of registered guests who were passing through security. Entering a cavernous hall that once comprised the entire Ben Gurion Arrival Building, I found myself taking a precious moment to compose my emotions.

It was astounding to behold and the plane hadn’t even landed! Throngs of relatives and friends mingled about carrying ‘Welcome’ signs and balloon arrangements; some wore corny T-shirts saying things like “Watch Out, Israel! Mom is Here!” There was an unmistakable carnival air, and I was only sorry I hadn’t insisted on bringing any of my crabby kids. And as with any good Jewish party, there were tables groaning beneath baskets of fruits and cakes, and even an elegant espresso bar was pouring out steaming concoctions at an alarming rate.

Familiar and inspiring Israeli music blared out of every speaker, and the hallway was peppered with beautiful soldiers, men and women who appeared splendid in their khaki best.

The arrivals were greeted with dancing and cheers, and even hardened sabras in the waiting group blinked back tears of amazement. Witnessing heroism is an all-too-rare phenomenon, especially when it is not wrapped in flowing capes or flashing blazing guns. The heroes who disembarked on that sunny Wednesday morning wore scraggly beards, denim skirts, tank tops, yarmulkes, dreadlocks, schlepped tote bags and pushed strollers. These men and women made difficult decisions and in many cases, broke the hearts of those they left behind. They dared to ‘come home’ because we have our own country and it is good to live where you belong.

Fifteen years ago, I arrived to a very different reception, and no one handed me the perks that the new Nefesh B’Nefesh arrivals are routinely awarded. But that doesn’t matter. The challenges they will face will be many and the moments of doubt are certain to occasionally disturb the process. What unites us is the memory of the moment that it was decided to not ‘let life happen’ but, rather, define our personal destinies and let fate and/or divine intervention handle the rest.