The Lost Tribe

We can stop looking for the lost tribe, because I know where they are. They are right here in Connecticut, about an hour away from my house, and they bear the same last name as I. These are the people I once had a close relationship with spanning several decades, and then things changed when I got divorced from their son/brother. I’ve tried to reach out many times over the past few years, but they have made it very clear they prefer to remain lost. At least to me.

Which is a shame, because losing them has affected my family in many ways, not just me. Holidays, birthdays, life cycle events all seem a bit off without them, and there’s that awkward absence or silence, like a void. With them, the wacky chaos is gone, but so if their fun-loving effusiveness. My natural instinct to share the stories and photos, accomplishments and future dreams of my almost grown-up sons has been shut down as well. Instead, they insist on isolation.

In truth, I’m the one they would probably have preferred to get lost. At times I do feel lost, since they were my only Jewish family, aside from my three kids.

But I worked too hard to find my Tribe, and I’m not going anywhere anytime soon; all the cooky tribal matters are what attracted me in the first place. They grow on you and although some complicate your life, I’ve alway been one for choosing complex over simple, interesting over dull. As long as there’s love and compassion, which there used to be plenty of.

I know how they got lost. They found a signpost on their path that offended them, and it was pointing to me. It came with some commentary (we Jews are big on commentary) that had no added value to their journey, our journey, and because of this they took a sharp turn that led them – or was it me? – to this galut,or diaspora. Funny thing is, they don’t seem to see it that way, as an unfortunate thing; instead they continue to guard the borders and fences that keep us separated with a strong conviction. Despite my outstretched hand, carrying an olive branch, suggesting a truce and a cup of coffee. Our Tribe is known for its ability to stick to its guns, after all. That’s how we have remained distinct for the past few thousand years.

There are discussions in the Talmud among the rabbis as to whether the lost tribes will eventually be reunited. There are even proven genetic links and abundant archeological traces connecting them. These bear the names of my children, their grand-children, nephews and cousins.

It would be better if the things we have in common could unite us, rather than letting the things that make us different, stand between us.

A good friend just told me about an exciting project she learned about on a recent visit to Jerusalem. It’s called New Story Leadership, and it invites young leaders from the Arab and Jewish communities to become agents of change, using the transformative power of stories to create a new story of possibility. It’s a form of conflict resolution that involves hearing the Other’s story, legitimizing it, and then moving onward and forward with a new and possible narrative of peace, hope and transformation.

But it takes the courage of leaders who believe that such a narrative is a better one than a prevailing mood of cynicism and separation. I am willing to listen to the story of the lost tribe, to honor it and respect it. I am hopeful that someone among them may accept my invitation to look toward a different and better story-line for our family.

For the sake of the children. For the sake of ourselves.

LostTribe

Godiva by the Gate

Here I am, sitting by the gate about to board the plane to Oslo from New York, enjoying a Godiva chocolate, making some last minute phone calls and feeling good about traveling light.

Next to me is a mother giving her small son an infusion – it appears from his baldness he may have cancer or a significant medical condition- and it knocks the breath out of me. Keeping her hands busy with tubes and clips, she smiles, chats with who might be her husband, and the little boy starts to sing. He plays with his truck.

I swallow the sweetness of the luxurious chocolate. Think of my three healthy teenage sons, whose early childhoods knew only typical growing pains and the occasional run to the ER for a stitch or three.

A deep surge of gratitude and humility makes me feel strangely present in my body, anchored in a material reality of the seat by the gate, but also in the gift of this suspended moment in time.

The rows of my seat are called to board, and I fish out the little card from my wallet with the Jewish traditional travel prayer. I whisper it to myself. That the boy, his family, and I should reach our destination in life, joy and peace.

Because I take nothing for granted.

I'm Grateful for