Dedication
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That night, my ten-year-old son tells me on the phone that his grandfather had a long life. A full life. He died a good death, a peaceful death. He was seventy-nine. I know this, but I still miss him. Jewish mourning is about the family, those left behind, their grief and its passing. Its rituals are beautiful and sad. But always focused on those left behind. Our family has always asked for one final mitzvah (or good deed) in the departed's name. The giving of a gift charity.
As we say the Sh'ma during the service, I think about my sons. How, when they were young we said Sh'ma every night before they went to bed. Now it comforts me as I say it in mourning. This quintessential prayer defines us. Shama, "Listen, God is one, God is indivisible. Praised be the One."
We ask to be granted wisdom and strength in responding to the pain of others as the memorial service reaches its conclusion in the Aleinu.
Thus even when they are gone, the departed are with us, moving us to live as, in their higher moments, they themselves wished to live. We remember them now; they live in our hearts; they are an abiding blessing. (from Gates of Prayer for Weekdays and at a House of Mourning, 1992)
Finally, we reach the mourner's Kaddish. We ask for peace for those living to descend upon us.
When the service is over, when the shiva is over and only our grief of loss remains, you know this has been one of those unforgettable moments. A moment both defined by the traditions pass down through our generations of Jewish loss, and where we define our traditions, beliefs, values- my humanity. Regardless of how you practice, or what religion you practice, this is humanities way of seeking strength. Where you are compelled to the act of saving the home planet. To heal the world around you. To be inspired to perform good deeds.
My Dad was like that. He would help anyone inside his circle; his loyalty to family and his people never in questions. With pure ethical intent learned by bribing government employers in The Great Depression. He was not religious nor am I but he was a loving man and he always meant well.
As we say the Sh'ma during the service, I think about my sons. How, when they were young we said Sh'ma every night before they went to bed. Now it comforts me as I say it in mourning. This quintessential prayer defines us. Shama, "Listen, God is one, God is indivisible. Praised be the One."
We ask to be granted wisdom and strength in responding to the pain of others as the memorial service reaches its conclusion in the Aleinu.
Thus even when they are gone, the departed are with us, moving us to live as, in their higher moments, they themselves wished to live. We remember them now; they live in our hearts; they are an abiding blessing. (from Gates of Prayer for Weekdays and at a House of Mourning, 1992)
Finally, we reach the mourner's Kaddish. We ask for peace for those living to descend upon us.
When the service is over, when the shiva is over and only our grief of loss remains, you know this has been one of those unforgettable moments. A moment both defined by the traditions pass down through our generations of Jewish loss, and where we define our traditions, beliefs, values- my humanity. Regardless of how you practice, or what religion you practice, this is humanities way of seeking strength. Where you are compelled to the act of saving the home planet. To heal the world around you. To be inspired to perform good deeds.
My Dad was like that. He would help anyone inside his circle; his loyalty to family and his people never in questions. With pure ethical intent learned by bribing government employers in The Great Depression. He was not religious nor am I but he was a loving man and he always meant well.