Do I, now that my son is about to make a life all his own? Car full, bike in the backseat, I stood aside as he prepared to take off for a rainy place on the other coast.
I used to tell people that he’d be back over spring break. Or, “he’s off traveling,” implying a return to home base. Which I no longer am, at least physically. This move across country is more permanent than his midwest education or his self guided, far flung adventures ever were.
He is following a path that’s been long in the making. It included studying, starting delays despite early graduation, but the day has finally come. Many around this world, in my orbit, don’t get to say the same. Not since their world was shaken and thrown off its axis.
My son’s dream coming true is nothing to cry about. Seattle is only a 43 hour drive away. But flying is an option.
Less than a year ago I went to a family wedding in Israel. One of many cousins around my kids’ age, in his young 20s, struck up a conversation with me. He was perfecting his English, he said. He was paying a service for a half hour conversation with a native speaker.
“That’s ridiculous,” I told him. “Call me.”
I didn’t expect him to, but was delighted when he did. His English was near perfect already, but he told me his plans for his future. We spoke about life, about what he wanted, and his charming girlfriend. We talked politics—family and otherwise—and weighed possibilities for peace.
Now his life is caught up short by a war. He’s been called back into service. Plans cancelled. His mother is forced to say a very different goodbye to him. And when she goes back to her bed, missiles are still flying overhead, trying to land even if the Iron Dome scuttles them. No one she loves is safe.
In my other life, I’m a wannabe musician. About 5 years ago a friend handed me a 32 string autoharp and I fell in love. I joined a band that plays Jewish folk music at temples.
So much of our songbook is dreaming of peace, hoping for peace, missing peace, or some divinely granted grace that will end our wars. We are aiming for a better day, while that Hamas massacre on the border of Gaza was fueled by a desire for revenge. I too see the pictures of suffering Palestinians, cowering beneath Israeli warplanes. And, I also see the rockets being fired into Israel constantly with fuel Hamas gets from somewhere, and any illusion of even temporary safety lays shattered.
Still, I believe in my heart of hearts, that the bombs would stop falling if the 200 or so hostages—babies to Grandma Bubbies—were released.
At that same February family wedding, the groom's grandmother sat with my husband and me. The family came from a Kibbutz down south.
“Nahal Oz. The first one on the Gaza border,” she said proudly. She was into her 80s and was one of the founding members of this farming collective in the early 1950s that considered Gazans their neighbors and friends. We talked about history and her life there. Her face was crisscrossed with the lines of the hardship she’d endured. As was her bright smile.
She said it could get tense from time to time, but they lived in relative peace. “Next time you come, visit!”
My husband and I enthusiastically agreed.
Two weeks ago, that Kibbutz was attacked. Forty percent of the community was killed. She thankfully survived, cowering in her darkened house watching WhatsApp for hours, following the frantic texting and listening to the gunshots outside, waiting for rescue. Terrorists were going door-to-door, claiming to be the Israeli army, only to shoot or abduct anyone inside.
Back home, I shoved the bag full of snacks I packed into my son’s car.
“It’s been about four years since you could teach me anything,” he said, closing the trunk. “I bet you miss it.”
I smiled. Of course I do. I didn’t point out that he is taking a huge portion of my teachings with him, even if he doesn’t notice. I brought him home at two days old, and said goodbye to him at 22. He is not in this war, but oh he could be.
Are all my tears helping? Because they keep coming.
So many people I know are shrouded in prayer shawls of grief, rage and mourning, thrust into confusing, sad, frightened realities. I chew the news and bite my nails, hopeless to do anything beyond turn away.
How can I beam with pride at my boy turned man, while people I love are suffering? The little red haired girl who patiently explained the difference between Charlotte and Samantha to me as I purposefully confused the characters of Sex in the City week after week, is now a medic on the front lines. How is this a world that makes any sort of sense?
I will miss my son. But we still have FaceTime. And no one wants him dead. At least that I know of. For now.
The world shutters and collapses, contracts and then erupts. Life is not a victimless endeavor. Illness, war and death don’t wait until you’re ready. Many are forced to endure these things simultaneously and out of order.
I’ve spent the last two weeks utterly worried, horrified and abjectly grateful, searching for a sliver of hope.
I closed the driver's side door on the man I raised. He set up his phone and put his hands on the wheel, grudgingly letting me take one last picture. God willing, I’ll be privileged enough to see him for Thanksgiving. And in the meantime I can track his progress on my phone.
There is a prayer in Jewish liturgy from the prophet Isaiah that says, “May we see the day that war and bloodshed cease. When a great peace will embrace the land. Then nation will not threaten nation, and humanity will not again know war.” To that I say a resounding, Amen.
Thank you for sharing this. It is medicine for my soul.
This is very moving. I remember crying for the mothers with babes in arms who had to flee from those who wanted them dead because of nation, race, or religion. I was a new mother myself, warm and safe, with every privilege while war raged in another part of the world. 30 years have passed since then. Wars have not left us yet. I take courage from this psalm 85 verse 10 promise.
Steadfast love and faithfulness will meet; righteousness and peace will kiss each other.
When this is true there will be no more war. But it is so hard to finnd piss and steadfast love even in or families.