“At dusk the girl who will become my mom
must trudge through the snow, her legs
cold under skirts, a bandanna tight on her braids.
In the henhouse, a klook pecks her chapped hand
as she pulls a warm egg from under its breast.
This girl will always hate hens,
and she already knows she won't marry a farmer.
In a dim barn, my father, a boy, forks hay…”
from “A Family History”, by Julia Spicher Kasdorf
Do you know your family stories?
That was the core question behind a study conducted by Marshall Duke and Robyn Fivush in 2001 (read more here, and with gratitude to Kavana partner Erin Bernau for indirectly reminding me of this study). Their objective: to discover how children’s knowledge of their family stories shaped their emotional resilience over time.
What they found was that families typically had one of three core narratives that they told.
First, the ascending family narrative: “Son, when we came to this country, we had nothing. Our family worked. We opened a store. Your grandfather went to high school. Your father went to college. And now you. ...”
Second is the descending narrative: “Sweetheart, we used to have it all. Then we lost everything.”
“The most healthful narrative,” Dr. Duke continued, “is the third one. It’s called the oscillating family narrative: ‘Dear, let me tell you, we’ve had ups and downs in our family. We built a family business. Your grandfather was a pillar of the community. Your mother was on the board of the hospital. But we also had setbacks. You had an uncle who was once arrested. We had a house burn down. Your father lost a job. But no matter what happened, we always stuck together as a family.’”
Dr. Duke said that children who have the most self-confidence have what he and Dr. Fivush call a strong “intergenerational self.” They know they belong to something bigger than themselves.
Let’s shift for a moment all the way back to the first generation of Jewish ancestors, Sarah Imeinu (our mother) and Avraham Avinu (our father). Sometimes a family story needs to restart - Abraham and Sarah left behind their families of origin and began anew, creating what we would in time call Judaism. But equally, they created what we now call the Jewish people. In this week’s parashah, Chayei Sarah, the matriarch dies.
Sarah’s lifetime—the span of Sarah’s life—came to one hundred and twenty-seven years. Sarah died in Kiriath-arba—now Hebron—in the land of Canaan; and Abraham proceeded to mourn for Sarah and to bewail her. Then Abraham rose from beside his dead, and spoke to the Hittites, saying, “I am a resident alien among you; sell me a burial site among you, that I may remove my dead for burial.” (Genesis 23:1-4)
Many of the commentaries highlight how purchasing the land for burial, and not receiving it as a kind gift, marks the first fulfillment of God’s promise that the land of Canaan would belong to the Israelites. In other words, the acquisition foreshadows the material future belonging of Abraham and Sarah’s descendants.
There’s another significance, though, to Abraham’s purchase of a burial plot for Sarah. Ramban (13th century Spain) teaches: “It was customary for them to have separate burial grounds for each family and one burial ground for the internment of all strangers.”
Abraham did not want his and Sarah’s future generations to be estranged from the past in the way he had become from his own past. He wanted them to have a locus of connection, a way to remember the past and to make its stories present, a way to weave Sarah into the intergenerational self of each and every Jew. Purchasing a cave doesn’t hide away the dead, it allows them to re-enter the lives of the descendents in a new way. It allows generations to belong to each other through story, even when they never met each other in life.
Sarah’s death marks the beginning of Jewish family storytelling. She receives the first Jewish eulogy, and all the ancestors (Abraham included) are literally or symbolically gathered to her. Her life and death provide the first threads of a complex, oscillating tapestry of memory, belonging, purpose, comfort, and strength.
In recent months, I’ve been drawn to researching my own family stories, tracing genealogy and talking to the memory-holders in my family (a particular shout out to my mom here!).
I’ve noticed that a longing to know my ancestors sometimes results in the joy of unexpected similarities, yet also sometimes sharpens the distance I feel from them, in time or personality or core commitments. Families, unsurprisingly, are complicated. As I’ve researched and meditated on my bloodlines, on the people without whose sheer fact of existence I too would not exist, I’ve also come to recognize other complementary lineages that make us who we are.
A while back, my brother Benjamin introduced me to the idea of milk-lines in addition to bloodlines. As he put it, “milk-lines are traditions that aren’t tied by blood, but that feed, nourish, and raise us nonetheless.” Adoptive parents, teachers, mentors, coaches, friends, all of these people form the milklines that nourish our existence. Who was your teacher’s teacher? Who nurtured your nurturing friend? How does that web of influence shape you and contribute to your sense of belonging?
And for me, there is an additional lineage, what I’m calling ink-lines. In Jewish tradition, there’s great emphasis on text, and finding the resonant voices in our thousands-year-old library, tracing the ways they influence and expand on each other, helps me understand my own place in Judaism intellectually, spiritually, and creatively. Who are the ancient and modern writers and readers who resonate for you, who inspire you or challenge you?
As we remember the life and death of Sarah our mother, what stories might you tell this Shabbat about where you come from, who influenced you, and how their past stories may lovingly support your future?
Shabbat shalom!
Rabbi Jay LeVine
