A Dream Unfolding

Three months ago, I took a chance and turned a dormant dream into a reality. I packed up my belongings, sold my car, resigned from my job, said goodbye to my friends and family and moved to Jerusalem.

Was I crazy? Maybe. But in many ways, this whimsical decision has made more sense to me than almost anything else in my life has.

Ever since I was a young girl, my eyes would sting with tears whenever I heard the opening chords of HaTikvah, the Israeli national anthem. At the time, I couldn’t explain why; I just knew I belonged to a country I’d never even visited.

Years later, I had the opportunity to visit Auschwitz and hear survivors’ stories first-hand. I remember seeing hope in one man’s eyes as he detailed his time in the death camps. How could this man possibly be nurturing hope while discussing unspeakable tragedies, I wondered. Then I began to understand; his hope had nothing to do with his own circumstances. By telling his story, this man was doing his part to prevent another Holocaust from ever happening again. His hope was in a brighter future.

I left that experience, understanding the need for the state of Israel in an entirely new way. It went so much deeper than providing a homeland for a persecuted people; Israel offered the chance for the Jewish people to collectively hope again.

For many years, I felt that my role in this hope was advocating for Israel, politically. Perhaps someday, I’d move there, but at the time, my focus was elsewhere. Then, recently, I decided that it was time for something new.

So, here I am, experiencing this “something new.”

When I first arrived, I couldn’t help but notice all the differences. I stood in a grocery store, staring at 50 brands of yoghurt all written in Hebrew, wondering which to choose. I fumbled as I learned to use an Israeli app to navigate the public transportation system in Jerusalem. I spent three hours punching random numbers into the phone, trying to guess how to speak to a live representative when calling to set up the internet. My heart filled with fresh compassion for immigrants in every corner of the world.

Yet, somehow, in the flurry of confusion and unfamiliarity, I felt connected. Though I was a stranger, I was also home.

Eventually, the unfamiliar began to feel familiar. I began to memorize the stops on my bus route, and I started to notice more similarities than differences– like a hopscotch game at the playground. Slowly, I began to acclimate to this new normal.

Recently, I met a young family who has captured my heart. I don’t share a language, a level of religious observance, or a culture with this family. Yet, I immediately felt at home in their house. Their children and I have formed a bond without being able to communicate with one another. Actually, that’s not true. We communicate without language.

Things I’m grateful for:

-the elderly man who greets me at the bus stop everyday, saying “Boker Tov.”

-the walk to my bus stop, where I get to see blooming flowers, a spectacular view of Jerusalem, and cute puppies

-surprising friendships

-creating routines and forming a place in an unknown world

-the joy of being able to order a cup of tea successfully in a foreign language

-being on an academic campus again and catching the idealism floating in the university air

-time and space to be able to write again

 

Zach’s Sister

Ever since I was young, I’ve loved to write. If there was a topic or situation that stirred something deep inside of me, I needed to write about it. Sometimes, my writing was just for me, while other times, I felt compelled to share it.

There’s always been one story that I’ve dreamed of writing. My brother, Zach, has Cerebral Palsy. Zach is amazing. He has talents galore and can make me laugh like no one else in the world can. But growing up as Zach’s sister wasn’t always easy. Even though my parents are incredible and did their best to raise Zach and I with all the love that is humanly possible, there were some tough realities that were simply beyond their control.

I remember standing in line at McDonald’s once when I was probably 8 or 9. Zach was in his wheelchair, and a little boy pointed to him and asked, “What’s wrong with you?” I was furious and told that little boy off. The poor child wasn’t actually trying to be cruel; he was just curious about something he didn’t understand. However, I didn’t understand his motives. In my world, my job was to protect my brother from people who made him feel bad about his disability, and I took that job extremely seriously.

While I felt a strong urge to protect and defend Zach, I also felt jealous of him and the attention he received. Sometimes, this entailed doctors and nurses hovering around Zach after one of his surgeries. Other times, it involved special gifts, visits from celebrities, and newspaper articles. I was jealous of all of it—the good and the bad. But as soon as I felt that familiar pang of jealousy, I would simultaneously feel a sense of guilt. “What kind of sister is jealous of her brother for having a disability?”

The hardest part, though, was my desire to be “normal.” The word “normal” was the equivalent of a bad word in my family. We made it a habit of teaching others that there was no such thing as “normal.” Every single person had their own set of challenges; some were just more visible than others. Our family wasn’t any different than any other family, we explained. But deep down, I knew that it wasn’t true. My family was different. We sat in different seats at baseball games; we didn’t wait in lines at amusement parks; and we were on a first name basis with every single person at the doctor’s office. In my heart, I sensed the sharp incongruence between what I felt and what I knew was right. Was I traitor to Zach for wanting to be normal?

Looking back, I think it would have helped immensely if there had been one person, who also had a sibling with a disability. Maybe that person could have taken me aside and said, “It’s perfectly okay that you’re having these feelings. I promise, I had them, too, and it doesn’t make you a horrible person.” That would have made an enormous difference.

I want to be that person for someone else, and the best way I know how to do that is to write.

I wrote my children’s novel from the perspective of a sibling of a child with a disability, and I’m hoping that my book will make it into the hands of other siblings who have been wrestling with these same kinds of feelings. I also hope that it will give others a glimpse into what it’s like to be a special needs sibling. My book is intentionally not the depiction of my own story. Instead, I created a fictitious story about a girl who has a sister with Spina Bifida.

I would love if my book would validate siblings’ feelings and show them that they’re not alone. I’d be honored if it would help them navigate through the challenges of life with a sibling who has a disability. Perhaps it might even help them to see beyond what they can see right now.

“Authors do not choose a story to write, the story chooses us.” – Richard P. Denney