I was talking to a friend the other day about another friend, who has been going through a difficult period ever since Hamas massacred peaceful Jews in Gaza a year and a half ago.

Our common friend is a quiet woman, someone who keeps her sorrows to herself.

For that reason, I was pained to hear of the friend’s increasing depression and darkness. The person I was speaking to mentioned that she’d made it a point to call her Jewish friends every few days, just to let them know that they were in her thoughts.

That got to me. That simple but profound act of kindness.

I have written columns, spoken about Hamas’ evil acts on the radio, raised prayers in my church for the victims, and commented about the repellent moral relativism of those who seek to equate Israel’s defense initiatives with the barbarism of terrorists.

But really, none of this is truly enough.

My friend, this good woman who understands the power of one-on-one human contact, has engaged in a righteous mission to reach out to the people she has broken bread with, danced Zumba with, shared drinks with, attended services with, and even butted heads with over politics, to let them know they are not alone in this sterile world of politically correct double-speak.

There is only one set of victims in this scenario, and they are Jewish.

That was brought home with brutal clarity last week, when the bodies of two flame-haired little boys and their lioness mother were released by the monsters who had taken them hostage.

Kfir, 9 months into this world before he was ripped from it, and his brother Ariel, a 4-year-old with an angel’s name, were laid to rest beside their mother, Shiri, a woman whose last image is imprinted on my brain: clutching her children, using her arms and body as a human shield against the hell they would inevitably suffer.

The evil committed by Hamas in the name of the children of Gaza that makes it almost impossible for me to mourn the deaths of those who were caught up in the collateral damage of Israel’s defensive campaign.

At some point, peace cannot be the end game, if it is unconditional and rewards the brutal warriors.

The sight of healthy, triumphant Palestinians being handed over in exchange for emaciated Israelis with the eyes like the suffering in a Goya painting or the men and women captured in the concentration camp photos makes me nauseous.

I can only imagine the reaction it provokes in my Jewish friends. For that reason, I pledge to start emulating my friend. I will be calling those in my extended circle to see how they are.

Ironically, the moral equivalency I have seen regarding the Hamas tragedy has given me a bit more insight into the Black Lives Matter era of a few years ago.

At that time, I was among the people who clung to the catch phrase, “All Lives Matter” in response to those who insisted on putting black squares in their profile photos, or raised angry fists of defiance.

I still do believe that all lives matter, including those of unborn children, of police officers, of wrongfully accused men, etc.

But when I hear people talk about the children of Gaza without blinking an eye at the execution of two little redheaded boys, and when I see the equivalence being made between a government’s attempt to target only terrorist outposts and terrorists targeting only innocent human beings, I understand why some in the BLM movement were angered when we said “All Lives Matter.”

In this moment, I don’t have time for kumbaya.

The lives that matter, now, are the lives of my friends who are suffering and who might not have the desire or ability to express that openly.

I’m going to check in on them. Maybe you should, too.

Copyright 2025 Christine Flowers