As I walk into the hotel lobby, I have the feeling of deja
vu. Dozens of people mill about with small suitcases. Young
Israeli families, singles, a handful of older people are all
busy organizing themselves for a four-day odyssey into their
collective past. Registration at the seminar. Expectations
weigh thick in the air with a good sprinkling of tension.
"Will they convince me of something that perhaps I'm not
ready for?"
I scan the crowd. A first glance, it does seem as though I've
been here before, many times. But as I stop panning and put
on my macro lens, I quickly realize this is not the case.
Each face reflects a different inner world, each expression a
different awareness. Each set of eyes hides another well.
I take a deep breath. Working in outreach can be a
humbling experience. Each of these worlds is well guarded
with at least two Doberman pinschers at the gate. And with
good reason. Will they let me into their inner
sanctums?
At first, each woman regards me with caution, even wariness.
"What is it she wants from me? What exactly is her
agenda?" To try to convince her than all I want to do is
give, is almost fruitless at this point. I admit that this
point is hard to swallow in a world of chronic takers.
Truthfully, what do I have to offer? Torah knowledge? For
this, she'll do better to look elsewhere. Virtues to emulate?
Even with the best of intentions, the statement is in the
red. Glancing into such potential for greatness, what is it
that I have to offer her? There must be something.
As the days and nights wear on, the barriers begin to fall
and the defenses start to crumble. And so she'll come
to me either with a provocative statement she heard in
a lecture or a controversial issue she picked up from a
discussion group. (Is there growth without provocation? Is
there accomplishment without stress?) Sometimes our
conversations last deep into the night, revealing pain and
beauty, love and loss. We sit huddled until the wee hours,
sharing a hard reality. After she leaves, her soul still
quivers softly in my palms, and I am afraid to move for fear
it will break...
The next morning, she may come to me, bleary-eyed. "You
know," she'll say, "you're different. You're so nice."
"Nice." Hmmm. That's an interesting word. I don't feel
`nice.' I feel wounded. I feel weary from shedding copious
tears every time I hear of more lives being shredded by Arab
bombs. From hearing about children dying sudden and traumatic
deaths in His arms, within His palace. And I grow weary too
from watching these women die a slow and painful death --
death from spiritual starvation, from estrangement from the
only Life Force.
But then, again, maybe she is right. "Nice" is an accurate
term, because what am I here for except to be nice? A
flight attendant to make you more comfortable and to make
your journey a pleasant one. After all, these passengers
have paid their fare in full. They have paid, through the
merit of their ancestors. Grandparents and great-grandparents
who gave up their lives with "Shema Yisroel" on their
lips. Grandparents and great-grandparents whose tremendous
sacrifice had the ability to influence generations to
come.
I reflect: My dear sister, although we look so different and
act so different, are we really so different? Aren't looks
deceiving? Isn't it just circumstance of birth that placed
you over there and me over here? So this is what I can
offer you. I stand before the King of kings, lacking in
knowledge and virtues, a silent prayer on my lips. Not a
prayer -- a plea:
Please, Tatte, accept us
Take us both and dress us in majesty
Drape us with Your silken wisdom
Groom us with the fragrant discipline of Your ways
Adorn us with Your will, and send us off
Still warm from Your loving embrace
To greet Moshiach, together.
(The writer is an outreach professional who has worked for
Arachim for the past ten years.)
[And who said she has no wings?]
