I recently wrote that there wasn't much I missed about life in America, apart from Sundays.
I've since realized I left something rather important off that list: the people.
I have always been pretty comfortable with my own company. I can happily spend time alone, and I don't generally need a great deal of checking in.
Which makes it a little surprising how emotional I sometimes get when someone sends me a text.
Since we moved to Jerusalem, a few friends have been wonderfully consistent about staying in touch. Sometimes it's a quick message before Shabbos. Sometimes a longer string of texts, an actual phone call, or even the occasional Zoom.
I appreciate all of them. More, probably, than I manage to convey in my replies.
And then there are the messages that arrive out of the blue.
I've heard from a few old high school friends. A participant on a Birthright trip from about twenty years ago reached out. People I haven't spoken with in years have appeared on my phone, and I've found myself so happy to hear from them that I get a lump in my throat.
I can't fully explain that feeling. There's the pleasure of hearing from the person, of course, and the surprise of it.
Before we moved, I understood that there would be a certain “cutting off”. We were leaving a place, a community, and the routines that kept us in regular contact with people. Some relationships would inevitably change. Even where the affection remained, the communication might become less frequent.
You can care very much about someone and gradually know less and less about their life.
I expected some of that. Still, we moved, and I didn't want to leave everything behind.
One particular worry has stayed with me. I have friends who are shluchim, still doing the work that occupied so much of my own life. I wonder whether some of them hesitate to reach out because they think hearing about their campuses might be difficult for me. Perhaps they worry that telling me about an event, their students, or the ordinary business of their lives would make me feel bad.
I don't know whether anyone actually feels that way. But if you do, please know that I do want to hear from you.
I want to know what's happening on your campus. I want to hear how you're doing. Those parts of your life are familiar to me, and I still care about the people living them.
You don't need to work out which subjects are safe to discuss before calling.
And yet I recognize the hesitation, because I feel it too.
I think of people I could reach out to and find myself wondering whether they'd welcome a message. Has it been too long? What would I say? Is there a reason to call, beyond having thought of them?
I can be deeply moved by an unexpected message and still hesitate to send one myself. Apparently, knowing how good it feels to hear from someone doesn't entirely cure the awkwardness of being the person who reaches out.
The friends who have written to me haven't needed anything particularly remarkable to say. A quick check-in before Shabbos has been enough. So has a conversation that wanders for a while, or a message from someone whose name I haven't seen on my screen in years.
I'm grateful to the friends who keep making the effort, and to the old friends who have decided to try again. You've made me very happy, sometimes on days when I especially needed to hear from someone.
I'm writing this partly because I want you to know that. And partly because I’m overthinking.