The snow is falling lightly here in Chicago this afternoon as I think of the hostages and write these words. I don’t know what the weather is like in Israel or in Gaza or wherever the hostages are being held captive. I don’t know if they are suffering in the cold or hungry or in pain. I don’t know if they are even alive. What I know is that it’s been more than a year since they were abducted, and I keep praying, as I’ve prayed for the past year, adding my prayers to everyone else’s prayers, hoping the hostages are safe.

But, of course, I have no idea if my prayers, or anyone else’s prayers, are being heard. I have no idea if God exists, although I hope (and pray) God does exist. As a Jew, I keep praying anyway, despite my doubts, because praying is how I manage to stay sane (if writing these words can be considered sane) and preserve some semblance of hope.

It’s my ongoing conversation with God—some days a whispered confession, other days a heated argument—that has sustained me for years as a Jew, and it’s what sustains me now. This relationship,........

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