It’s been years in the making, so I was surprised to find
myself feeling emotional. Saturday marked the “official” last day that my
in-laws would be living in their home in Ohio. They have been working towards moving
to Arizona for a long time and it is now a reality. My mother-in-law shared
that she and my father-in-law were feeling overwhelmed. Congregation members
and dear friends of 43 years had thrown a farewell party for them earlier in
the day. They were worn out from the beautiful witness of love that friendship
and faith have been for them.
As I listened to the events of their impending departure, I had to steel myself against the desire to burst into tears. Why?
I’m lucky. I have family. They are healthy and alive. For crying
out loud, they are only moving. Get a grip.
Often, it’s the turns on this journey that get me. I've moved many times, so why was I desperately grieving what would never again be
on Fontella Court? Why was I clinging to the memories that I treasured from a structure 486 miles away?
I turned the corner for the first time from Shadywood
Drive onto Fontella Court with my stomach in a knot. Would they like me? Would I
feel accepted? Would they resent me? I was older than their son, Catholic and
of German descent. They were Jewish and
from Israel. We had only been dating for
a short time, but this was different – just like our backgrounds. They were warm, inviting, loving and kind. The
knot returned when in making small talk, I asked about the people in a
panoramic sepia photo on the wall. I was told that it was not one image, but
two photographs put together. My heart
sank to learn that the faces staring back at me from the antique frame
were members from both sides of the family that were lost in the
Holocaust.
I remember turning the corner onto Fontella Court and wondering
how I’d manage through the evening. Anxious and unsure, I was arriving alone to join my new friend and
his family for Rosh Hashanna dinner. New Year? In September? Would I be able to make a connection between the
experience and my own beliefs? It’s
strange what we remember – odd things like my concern about how I might leave
sweaty footprints on their beautiful ceramic tile after I removed my shoes and
walked in my stockinged feet. It was a
rush of an experience – foreign, yet exhilarating. Hebrew and English
intertwined with unfamiliar fragrances of foods that I would come to love and
strive to replicate - brisket, kasha vanishkas, tzimmes and honey cake. In turning the corner with an open heart, I
realized that this precious celebration and many others to follow, were intrinsically
linked to my own faith.
I will forever treasure turning the corner the night that
I knew he was the “one.” We spent an unplanned
afternoon helping a distressed friend in the midst of a domestic abuse crisis.
He answered my call, rushed to the scene and I never looked back.
We turned the corner onto Fontella Court many times during
the joys and stress of planning and celebrating an interfaith wedding -
reassured by the calming presence of the cedar wood home on the hill.
What joy it was to turn the corner on
that cold February day. We were giddy to bring our baby girl to Ohio, safe and
healthy after her arrival six weeks premature. Laughter, love and once-new-to-me Yiddish words, such as "punim" and "tuchas” continued for years with the birth of our son and subsequent celebrations.
Holidays, summer visits with flowers in bloom,
winter trips just because; like our hearts, the house expanded to encompass the memories. Turning the corner to discover, share, learn and find
our way. Turning the corner in search of love, reassurance, hope and guidance.
After pondering the lump in
my throat, I realized that the longing for home is innate. It’s how we’re
wired. We desire to turn the corner and see that the Tom Bodetts in our lives
have left the light on. I’m grateful for the lights along the way. Beacons of faith,
family and friends shine to remind me that no matter the location or distance; the light will continue to shine, and I am home.
