She almost didn't come in.

She'd come down to the Chabad House a dozen times before — through the cold, through midterms, through every kind of exhausted. But this time she stopped at the edge of the path and didn't move.

There was a sheriff's car parked out front. A uniformed officer standing at the door. What does this mean? She stood there for a moment. Then she walked in anyway.

A few days later, our student board discussed the need for security at Chabad. Someone asked out loud what we were all wondering: "Did the sheriff's presence make students feel the danger of coming into a Jewish space?"

Nobody answered right away. Then one student leaned forward.

"Coming to Chabad is not a luxury for me. Engaging in my Jewish identity is the core of who I am. I pray it is safe, security helps — but not coming isn't an option."

That is the Jewish student we are privileged to serve. Not a student paralyzed by fear — but one who chooses, consciously and deliberately, to show up for who she is. She is also not alone. There are students who wrestle with that choice. Who do the quiet math: is my identity worth the risk, even if it's only a small risk?

We are living in a moment where antisemitism has become more normalized than at any time in recent memory. The Chabad movement has recently been targeted directly by prominent media personalities. That sheriff outside our door isn't decorative. He is a sign of the times.

And yet — they come. That resilience isn't new. It's ancient.

When the Jewish people left Egypt, they didn't walk out into safety. They left vulnerable, exposed, uncertain. The Egyptians came after them at the sea. Then Amalek attacked from behind, going after the vulnerable and unprotected. But the Jews didn't go into hiding. At the Red Sea, when fear threatened to stop them, G-d told them to just move forward.

So they went forward. And G-d provided.

The clouds of glory surrounded the entire camp. They shielded the people from the heat, from enemy arrows, from the elements. But they did more than protect. Within those borders, the Jewish people learned Torah, built community, and deepened their connection with each other and with G-d. The clouds weren't just a wall against the outside. They were a warm, sacred space for Jewish life to flourish on the inside.

That is what you build for students at Hamilton College when you give.

Not just a place where students won't get hurt — but a place where they can be proud, knowledgeable, joyful, and excited about being Jewish. Where showing up isn't just safe. It's meaningful.

When you give, you build those walls. You become a partner in making sure the Jewish students at Hamilton College have not just a safe Passover — but a real one. A seder that feels alive. A table that feels like home. You tell every student who pauses at the edge of the path: you are right to come in. Your identity is worth celebrating. You are not alone.

Will you give generously this Passover?

Your gift ensures that when our students walk through that door, they are met with the full warmth of Jewish celebration — safety, belonging, meaning, and joy. With a cloud of glory surrounding them that not only protects, but nurtures.