Oceans Apart

The long distance phone call came early one Sunday morning. It was our son to tell us that his wife of four months was pregnant. I expressed my excitement and we chatted briefly about when the baby would be born and how his wife was feeling. When I hung up, I was overcome with sadness.

Even though my son chose to study in Israel for the rabbinate, I had always hoped that he would marry an American girl and settle here. He did marry an American girl -- one whom he met in Israel and who shares his conviction that the Holy Land should be their permanent home.

I had not seen the newlyweds since their wedding in Jerusalem. The news that they would soon be parents made me yearn for a glimpse at their life as a married couple. I longed to see how they relate to each other, how they arranged their new apartment, and how the china we gave them as a wedding gift looks on their dining table. And now there would be a baby -- my first grandchild whose life I would encounter only for brief periods, surely missing many significant milestones. I began to view the distance that separates us as my personal enemy.

My need to connect in some concrete way led me to dig out the knitting needles, unused for many years. I perked up considerably at the thought of knitting a sweater and hat for the baby's homecoming. Each evening, as I watched TV, I knitted away happily as the pattern emerged and the garment grew, continuously relating it to the new life taking shape 7,000 miles away. Its arrival in Israel was received with great excitement and much appreciation.

My grandson wore my hand-knit sweater and hat for his trip home from the hospital and again eight days later for his ritual circumcision. Though I was not there in person, the labor of my hands enveloped the baby on the first two major events of his life. I was thrilled. As a working mom, time and financial constraints did not permit me to be there for these occasions. However, the children promised to make the trip to the United States when the baby was three months old.

Preparation for their prospective visit began almost immediately after the baby's birth. First, I arranged my son's bachelor room to accommodate a married couple. I set about borrowing baby equipment from neighbors and friends -- a crib, a stroller, an infant-seat, a baby bath, a diaper pail. As each item was put in place, my bond with the new arrival tightened.

I mentally adopted every three-month old I met on the street, at the supermarket or in a restaurant. Often I engaged the infant's mother in conversation, inquiring about the child's eating and sleeping habits, where to shop for baby clothes, and what baby detergent to use, gathering important data on the latest in child-care. Of course, each of these innocent moms had to hear about my newborn grandson who was about to grace the American scene.

Now that my son was a married man and a father, I wondered if he would still seek me out for long, rambling conversations about personal relationships, his work, my work, family? Would my new daughter-in-law feel comfortable in my home? Would she trust me with the baby?

The big day finally arrived. I immediately observed that the baby was a handsome, robust and responsive child and that parenthood made my son more mature and my daughter-in-law more confident. Holding my grandson's firm, sturdy body in my arms filled me with an indescribable sense of well-being.

One day, my son and I took a trip to outfit him for his first rabbinical position. As we rode in the car we talked about the many changes in his life. Having a son of his own has made him relive and reflect upon his own relationship with his father, which he now regards more reverently. We returned home with a new wardrobe and a promise that I would hand-kit him a sweater.

On the last day of their visit, I was the designated baby-sitter. It had been more than a quarter of a century since I had cared for an infant, but I found that it's much like knitting -- you never quite forget. I was out of practice, but on the whole the baby and I did fine. When I rocked my grandson in the same chair in which I had rocked his father three decades earlier, I shed tears of gratitude and joy.

For the first few weeks following the children's departure, the precious moments we shared were etched in my mind, like a series of videos that I played whenever I had the need to feel close to them. Modern technology has enabled us to view the images of loved ones on our computer screens, but you can’t touch or hug the screen and feel the warmth of their affection. Knitting a garment they can wear becomes a lasting reminder of your presence. It wraps their bodies like a warm embrace. Maybe it's time for me to get started on a sweater for my son.