Sorry for your loss

I had to make a lot of phone calls after my father died. Of course there were the big ones that very evening, to my brother, my children, the rabbi, relatives, and, of course, the chevra kaddisha (burial society). Then to many others regarding arrangements for the funeral and shiva that followed.

After the shiva ended, and "real life" reimposed itself, there other phone calls, of a very different nature. These involved more mundane matters: mostly cancelling various services that my father had. I didn't have to make these kinds of calls when my mother died seven and a half years ago, but when your second parent dies, you have to deal with all that they accumulated during their lives together: the photos, the heirlooms, the art objects, things handing the walls, in drawers, in cabinets, in book shelves, all the stuff your parents' surrounded themselves with during their lives. Everything has to be dealt with, distributed, disposed, and, in the case of subscriptions, cancelled.

And so I made a list and one by one began calling to cancel them. There was the Wall Street Journal (he long ago switched to the journal from the New York Times). The cable TV service. His cell phone line. Life Line. Magazine subscriptions. Credit cards. His health insurance provider. The university from which he drew a pension. Social security. Medicare.

Workers have been trained to respond to requests to cancel service by trying to convince you to keep it. And so they inevitably ask why you are cancelling the service. But when you respond by saying you are calling because your father died, you short circuit any attempt at business negotiation. Their reaction is, at first, a pause and then the words "sorry for your loss." The employees became very helpful and sympathetic. Their humanity had been exposed. Within minutes, the service was cancelled.

In the beginning when I had to make these calls, I would tear up to these complete strangers when explaining the reason for my call. After a while the calls became easier, less emotional. I'm not sure that "sorry for your loss" is the best response to hearing news of another person's father, but it's fine when coming from a customer service employee of a company. These words by disembodied voices, as well as the knowledge I'd accomplished another small step to tying up the many strands of life left by my father's passing, provided, in its own way, some small measure of comfort.

Whatsapp minyan

Technology, smart phones in particular, has its pluses and minuses. This is true even as it relates to saying kaddish. On the minus side, it is quite annoying when they ring in shul (synagogue) during davening (prayer). For some reason, people who would automatically turn them off before seeing a movie, play or concert don't think of doing that when they engaged in the holy work of relating to their Creator. Of course, at public performances there are generally reminders to shut off your phones beforehand whereas Rabbis or Gabbis don't feel the need to issue such reminders before the service begins. Maybe they assume people know not to create distractions during the service. Or maybe, I suspect, they secretly want to admonish the assembled, but don't feel able to impose their authority or infringe on the personal autonomy of their congregants.

One benefit to smart phones in shul is the useful distraction they provide when you get bored during davening. (I explained my thoughts on this matter in my earlier blog written while saying kaddish for my mother) Boredom is not an uncommon occurrence for those of us who spend more than an hour a day, every day, in shul, owing to the obligation to say kaddish in a minyan (prayer quorum). (Of course, there are others who "voluntarily" make it their business to pray every day as part of a minyan.)

But the technology that, without a doubt, provides the greatest benefit to kaddish is WhatsApp.  WhatsApp is by now a ubiquitous messaging application. It allows one to communicate via text or phone call with anyone (with a smart phone), anywhere, anytime. (WhatsApp was introduced in 2009 and bought by Facebook in 2014 for nearly $20 billion.)

One of, if not the the most, valuable feature of WhatsApp is group messaging. WhatsApp allows you to create a group whereby you can message the entire group at once. Originally, people used this mostly for getting out messages to family members. Now, however, new WhatsApp groups seem to be popping up on a daily basis. My apartment building now has a WhatsApp group. So too the kiddush club to which I belong. These days it seems that every organization, formal or informal, large or small, is creating a WhatsApp group. (How one navigates the constant stream of messages is another matter.)

My community has created a shiva minyan WhatsApp group. It is moderated by the rabbinical staff of my synagogue. By now it has almost 100 members. (Male members, I should add, since only men are toward toward the quorum of 10 needed to say kaddish.) Whenever someone is sitting shiva and needs a minyan to say kaddish, the staff sends a message. People start responding, allowing a head count of how many men will be there and how many more are still needed. A typical message reads something like "that makes 6, 4 more are needed. Who will join?" I joined this WhatsApp group shortly after my father died knowing that, needing to saying kaddish, I would be making it my business to pray in a minyan for the next year. I also wanted to participate in the group in recognition for the help it provided in ensuring a minyan at my own shiva.

Last week I was heading for the shul closest to where I live for the afternoon mincha prayer service when a WhatsApp message came across my phone indicating that a minyan was needed at the other shul where I often pray. There were several shiva minyans (prayer services) taking place at the same time, siphoning off many of the regulars who would otherwise pray at shul.  So I changed direction and headed for the other shul. We got just enough men to make the minyan.

A few days later there were two shiva minyans and messages went out asking who could attend which minyan. Volunteers were directed to go to whichever home still needed the required 10 men. Both ended up getting a minyan, and then some, but another message went out from the shul that men where needed there. So a car went to pick up some of the "extra" men at one of the shiva minyans to bring them to the shul. This kind of coordination and information sharing, made possible by WhatsApp, could not have been possible just a few years ago.

Since I've joined this WhatsApp group, I cannot recall a single instance when someone sitting shiva did not get a minyan. And, I should add, this is true whether the mourner was a man or a woman, as in my community, many if not most women say kaddish while sitting shiva. It is an amazingly effective vehicle for making sure that every person sitting shiva has the opportunity to say kaddish.

What exactly makes this technology so effective? WhatsApp allows instantaneous information sharing among a large group of people. But I think more is at work here. In the past, it was easy to forget the details of a shiva minyan after the initial email and/or phone call announcing a shiva. WhatsApp messages, by contrast, provide daily reminders of who is sitting shiva and where and when minyans are needed. Even more, people attach greater priority to text messages than to emails or phone calls. Text messages have a greater sense of intimacy as well as urgency. For better or worse, they are understood as requiring an immediate, or near immediate, response. (See https://itstillworks.com/benefits-texting-vs-email-3872.html)

There is also, I believe, an underlying sense of guilt and obligation implied in the WhatsApp messages. Once people start responding, a feeling arises of wanting to be part of the group. You have a palpable sense that your presence is needed. Other people are responding, changing their routine to join the shiva minyan, so why not you? You know abstractly that getting a minyan is important, but the messages, once they start pouring in, remove it from the realm of abstraction to the realm of action. And then there is the feeling of gratification when the final message is received that the minyan has been achieved.

We live in a wonderful age. Technology is changing so fast and having an overwhelming impact on our lives. Many have noted the negative aspects in terms of excessive screen time, needless distractions and addiction to cell phones. It is nice to have an example in which technology can help bring people together to enable recent mourners--people who are at their most emotionally raw and vulnerable state--to express their sorrow publicly through prayer and kaddish.

Recognition

Sometimes I wonder what I'm doing up there at the bima leading prayers. I do that fairly frequently as I, as a mourner, have a chiuv (obligation) to serve as the Shaliach Tzibur (prayer leader). That obligation will last about nine more months, until I am done saying kaddish.

One of my central questions raised in my previous blog, written during the year I was saying kaddish for my mother, Hilda Kessler, z'l, was exploring the nature of the obligation to lead prayers. (see shunted-aside and why-i-am-leading-prayers) Now this issue occupies my thoughts less often. Perhaps I worked through that issue during my previous round of mourning or perhaps I am simply more focused on other issues now, or some some combination of both.

I do, however, appreciate when my "work" as prayer leader is recognized. It's not easy job. There are issues of timing, pacing, pronunciation, nusach (form of prayer), making sure you skip prayers that are not recited on certain days, making sure you don't go too fast but don't go too slow. It's a skill. See growing up as a Jew).

A couple of days ago, I was asked to take over the prayer service after the preliminary prayers. There was a bris (circumcision) taking place after the service, made obvious by the presence of the Elijah's Chair, the change in location of the service to a larger space, as well as the double the number of people who usually show up for a Sunday 8:30 a.m. prayer service. As I began the repetition of the amidah prayer, the mohel, the man who performs the circumcision, came up to the bimah and started setting up. First he washed his hands with hand sanitizer. Its smell wafted over me as and as I mouthed the words of the prayer. He moved the chair around. Then he began laying out the tools of his trade, various metal objects whose function I could not exactly determine.

To say this was a distraction is an understatement. A part of me wanted to stop and tell him to get out of my space, for the bima feels like my personal when I'm up there leading prayers. But my more rational side, fortunately, got the best of me. I figured it if the rabbis had any problem with what was going on, they would intervene, and they seemed more preoccupied with the upcoming bris than with my repetition of the amidah. In fact, most of the people there were there just to witness the bris and probably wanted me to get done with the prayers as soon as possible. I, however, took the repetition slow, with the baby in mind, figuring I would prolong his repose before the moment of truth.

After I had finished, the mohel wasted no time resuming his place at the bimah. The show was about to begin. Everyone seemed happy to see me descend from the bimah to the extent they paid any attention to me. I returned to my seat and removed my tallit (prayer shawl) and tephilin. The brit was in full swing. Before I could leave the sanctuary the baby was complaining vociferously about his foreskin having just been removed.

This evening I led prayers again at the evening service. That's a much easier job. When I was done folding the tallit that the shul requires me to wear (that's unusual since most shuls you only have to wear a tallit for the morning and afternoon services) I was about to leave and go home when a man, a stranger to me, came up to the bima to shake my hand and say "yishar koach" (good job). I was very touched. These little gestures mean a lot to me. They make me feel appreciated. They are also a recognition that the reason I am leading prayers is to give honor to my father. I felt honored and that honor is owed to my father in whose memory I am leading prayers.

 

Shabbat adventure

I am feeling very differently about this kaddish year than the one I underwent seven and a half years ago when my mother died. Then I was having anxiety dreams about missing kaddish. (http://mykaddishyear.blogspot.com/2012/01/kaddish-anxiety-dream.html) This time I'm taking my obligation to say kaddish as much as I can, but within the confines of living my life in the way I feel I want and need to. And so I've missed kaddishes because I've taken on some extra work obligations which results in getting home after afternoon prayers. I've also missed mincha (the afternoon service) because I had a doctor's appointment that was difficult to reschedule which ended too late for me to make minyan.

I've also missed some minyans because I'm part of a mind/body awareness training program that meets on weekends. To participate in these workshops, I need to stay in Manhattan over shabbat and so am not able to attend my normal synagogues. Last shabbat was one of these times, and I went to a synagogue that I've gone to before when I stay in the city. This time, however, they didn't get a minyan for shabbat morning. It was snowing and some older men who usually attend didn't make it. By 10:30, there were still only nine men. Due to my kaddish obligation, I was advised to try a different synagogue about a 15 minute walk away. I set out and found the shul. Fortunately they had a minyan. Before I knew it, I was being given an aliyah to the Torah and being encouraged to stay for a chulent kiddush.

The question was where to daven mincha. The latter shul didn't hold mincha services. I recognized one of the men there who I'd seen before at the first shul. He told me he would go there for mincha and so there would be a minyan. I trusted him.

A t late afternoon, I left my workshop for shul. Eventually, 10 men, including me, not more or less, arrived. Since they hadn't gotten a minyan for the morning service, and therefore didn't read the weekly Torah parsha (portion) for that week, the rabbi did something remarkable: he leyned (read) the entire parsha for the first aliyah, then leyned parshat shekalim for the second aliyah (a special reading for the sabbath that precedes the holiday of Purim), and then the regularly scheduled reading for the third aliyah. And all this could only have happened because I was there.

When you are saying kaddish, you can witness and be part of amazing things. As Shlomo Carlebach was found of saying, "You never know, you just never know."

Constructive feedback

When you are a mourner, especially at the beginning of the year of mourning, you get a lot of attention. One reason is that your loss is fresh. People are still finding out that your parent died and offering condolences. Not everyone knows why you're saying kaddish, so they ask, and you tell them, and then they offer condolences. "Sorry for your loss" is the most common response.

Then, all of a sudden, you are saying kaddish and, if you're a male in an Orthodox setting, and so inclined, leading prayers. As a shaliach tzibur (prayer leader), you're up there at the bima (prayer stand) and so everyone else is looking at you (actually not everyone, since some people are looking at their phones or just spacing out).

Since shiva ended and I began praying at shul (synagogue) on a regular basis, I've gotten some "constructive feedback" on my "performance" as prayer leader. Some people have shaken my hand afterwards and said "yishar koach," which loosely translates as "nice job." I've also gotten the usual response of either going to fast or too slow. The speed issue is especially tricky during the morning service when people, myself included, have to leave shul to get to work on time. I tend to think of myself as going slower than most prayer leaders, so I make a conscious effort to go a little faster than I would otherwise (except on Sunday mornings when the atmosphere is more leisurely). But I was recently told I was going to fast and leaving the congregants in a race to catch up to me. This was not a new critique of my davening. The same comment was made at the same synagogue when I was saying kaddish for my mother. (http://mykaddishyear.blogspot.com/2012/04/watch-my-speed.html). Of course, I'd also come under criticism for going to slow. (http://mykaddishyear.blogspot.com/2012/05/praying-with-intensity.html)

Another piece of feedback I've received is that my head tephilin were not on straight. Tephilin are the leather boxes containing verses from the Torah that you put on during the morning service (except on Sabbaths and holidays). You put one on your arm and the other on your head. The head one is supposed to look like this:

Apparently mine were slanted a little to one side. No one ever told me this before, either because I was putting them on properly or because no one ever bothered to mention it. But now it's being mentioned because I'm an object of attention. So I'm spending a little extra time trying to make sure they are on straight. Some people use a mirror to check to see how their tephilin appears on their head. That seems a little excessive to me. I haven't gone that far--yet.

Next, someone commented on my bowing. There are various points during the prayer service that you are supposed to bow. During the prayer (amidah), both individually and, when reciting the repetition, one bows when one says "baruch ata ha'shem" during the first blessing as well as the last line of the penultimate blessing.

In addition, one bows when one says "modim."

There is an addition bow when one recites Barchu, the call to prayer at the beginning of the blessings leading into the Shma Israel.

Apparently I wasn't bowing correctly. When you are praying privately, no one is really concerned  with when and how you are bowing. But when you are leading services, people see you and, at least some, are willing to make comments. I was told I wasn't straightening up fast enough before I said the name of God. You are supposed to be bend your knew when you say "baruch," which is related to the word "berech," which means knee. Then you are supposed to bow when you say "ata" (you). Then you are supposed to straighten up when you get to God's name, but not actually say God's name until you are fully upright.

When I went over these matters with a knowledgable friend, he explained that this bowing is different than the bowing at "modim" and "barchu." These bowings don't involve bending the knees, since you are not saying "baruch." Rather, one just bends from one's waist. Then you straighten up before you reach the name of God, which is the sixth word in the modim and the third word in the barchu.

Since these conversations, I've become more aware of my bowing technique. No one has commented or corrected me on it. I hope I can get this matter under my belt, so to speak, so I can get back to focusing on what really matters for me--dealing with my father's death and it's impact on me and my family.

A Wedding and a Vow Fulfilled

My brother got married last Sunday. It was truly a joyous occasion. But it was also tinged with sadness. This was the first family simcha (joyous occasion) that neither of my parents attended. My niece got married a few years after my mother died. At least my father was there. He carried with him the spirit of his wife, my mother, and we felt her absence. Now there was another simcha. I carried with me the spirit of both my parents. My brother drank the wine of the sheva brachot (blessings recited under the wedding canopy) from our father's kiddush cup, his presence marked.

God willing, there will be many other joyous family occasions. One day, I pray, my children will marry. There will be a wedding. One that my parents would so much have wanted to be there for. Hopefully I will be there. But I will inhabit more than myself. For I am now an inhibitor of spirits, of memory, of influences born of years in their presence and, now, their physical absence.

During the wedding, we prayed the afternoon Mincha service. I led it, cell phone in hand, because I have a chiuv (obligation) to lead the services in honor of my father. My brother and I said kaddish. We mourned. Then we celebrated.

Before my mother died, I spoke to her about my brother. He was going through a difficult time at the time. I made a promise to her. I told her that if and when he got married, I would dance for her at the wedding. Last Sunday I was able to fulfill that promise.

Hair

When my father died, I already needed a haircut. I usually get a haircut about every 5-6 weeks, and it had been around that long since my last one. As he became more ill, I should have remembered that you are not supposed to get a haircut for at least 30 days after your parent dies. But I had other things on my mind. Nor was I expecting him to die when he did.

Then, after the shiva ended, and I took a walk around the block to signify my reentry into society, I did two things: I took off the ripped shirt I had worn every day of the shiva and I shaved. You are not supposed to shave during the shiva. (You can shave during aninut, the period between death and the funeral, and I did shave the morning of the funeral.) Not shaving is part of a series of prohibitions during the shiva that resemble those on Yom Kippur: no bathing, no shaving, no wearing of leather shoes, and no sex. (Of course you can eat, and I ate very well as friends brought over lots of food).

I shaved because I don't look very good with a beard and I hated the feeling of my stubbled face. I had a beard many years ago, and it never looked that great on me. I've been clean shaven ever since. I also was planning on returning to work the next day and couldn't see myself facing my colleagues and students with week old facial hair. I was even hoping the rabbi would give me permission to shave just before shabbat during shiva, to look good in honor of the Sabbath, but he said no. On this matter, I felt that since I had asked for rabbinic guidance, and he had given me the straightforward halakhic stance on the matter, I needed to heed his counsel. So I had to wait until after the shiva was over.

Of course, there are some that say that you are not allowed to shave until after the shloshim ends (30 days after burial). Norman Lamm, in his popular book on Jewish mourning practices, The Jewish Way in Death and Mourning, states that "shaving is permissible only after thirty days, and for parents only until the mourner experience the social reproach after the shloshim" (p. 125, emphasis in original.) However, he backtracks on this and seems to endorse a more lenient approach owing to our age where most people are clean shaven: "those who shave daily and who need a smart appearance for parnassah (to earn a living), their business or profession, may shave after shivah." (Ibid.)

I was also about to go out and get a haircut on the day after shiva ended. But then I remembered that maybe I shouldn't. So I checked both Lamm and my Rabbi. Both were adamant: no haircuts during shloshim. Lamm explains this as "another indication of the withdrawal of the mourner from society. It is part of the general mourning pattern of forsaking personal appearance and grooming at a time of great personal loss (Lamm, p. 124).

And so my hair grew and grew. My grey, nearly all white now, stringy hair. Then, even after the shloshim ended, I was supposed to wait to get my hair cut until I was socially reproved. Social reproof is the concept that you are not allowed to groom until it appears objectively objectionable to others. A friend of mine who was a rabbi at the time and wanted to shave after his shloshim asked one of his congregants what he thought of his beard. The congregant said it looked pretty good on him. That was not the answer he was looking for so he asked another congregant who said it looked like he could use a shave. That was his cue to get himself to a barber.

I was not going to wait for social reproof because I was already getting sick and tired of this long hair. My hippie days are long past. But I had an even better excuse to get a haircut. My brother is getting married this weekend. I need to look good for his wedding. I don't want to appear as if I am still in mourning at his joyous occasion. I don't want the photographs from the wedding to show me clearly in need of a haircut. And so I got one a couple of days ago. I look and feel a lot better.

In shul this shabbat, I told my rabbi, the same one who admonished me not to cut my hair during the shloshim, that I had gotten a haircut. I said I felt I should get one before my brother's wedding. He responded: "good call."

"How are you feeling?"

A lot of people who know me have been asking me lately, "how are you feeling?" It's nice, because it shows people care about me and recognize that, in a way, I am not the same person I was before my father died, before the trauma of experiencing the death of the person who brought me to life and who was with me for 63 years.

The problem is that I don't have a good answer. I am not really sure how I'm feeling. I don't feel happy, though I am still able to laugh and enjoy companionship. Nor, however, do I feel devastated, depressed or immensely sorrowful. I am not crying much, just a tearful kaddish every now and then. Memories of my father float through my mind at random times during the day. Sometimes they are pleasant ones, of meaningful time spent together, sometimes difficult ones of times we weren't that close or from the painful final weeks.

Much of my energies are focused on renewing my work routine and hobbies, to the extent my shul (synagogue) obligations allow. In one way, I have more time now since I'm not spending time with him any more. On the other hand, there is much to do. His apartment and its contents needs to be disposed. Estate matters need to be dealt with. And so I am busy with my life.

So how am I feeling? It's an impossible question to answer at this point. Okay. Not okay. Well. Not well. A tangle of emotions and sensations. Maybe, in the coming weeks and months, I'll be better able to answer this question.

Questions of timing

Today was Rosh Chodesh Adar 1, the first day of the new month of Adar. This year, there are two months of Adar, Adar Aleph (Adar 1) and Adar Bet (Adar 2). That's because it is a leap year, which occurs 7 times every 19 years, and leap years have a second month of Adar. The purpose of the extra month is to keep the lunar calendar in sync with the solar year so that the holidays continue to fall out in the proper season (e.g., Passover in the spring, Sukkot in the fall).

My father died a month ago today. That sad day was also the first day of a new month, Rosh Chodesh Shvat (January 7). He took his last breath around 5:05 p.m. Since the Jewish day begins in the evening, his death occurred on the second day of Shvat. The second of Shvat is now marked as the day of his yahrzeit (anniversary day of death).

In three days, on the 3d of Adar 1, the period of Shloshim will end. That is because the period of Shloshim begins not on the day of death, but on the day of burial, which was the 4th of Shvat (January 10). Counting that day and 29 days afterward brings us to the 3d of Adar 1.

A few days ago, some friends of my parents decided to commemorate the Shloshim of his passing. They did it on the 30th day after he died, on Rosh Chodesh Adar 1 even though, technically speaking, according to halacha (Jewish law), the Shloshim was not until four days later. But it was the thought that counted, and the event was a moving testament to the impact my parents had on the Berkeley Jewish community. The learning centered around various teachings from Perkei Avot (Wisdom of the Fathers), a work that my father was particularly interested in.

The leap year will also impact the relationship of the kaddish obligation and end of the year of mourning to the yahrzeit. The Jewish calendar has 12 months. Kaddish is recited for 11 months. This is based on the idea that the purpose of kaddish is to bring merit to your deceased parent's soul, to elevate it to Gan Eden and that to say kaddish for the full year would imply that your parent's would was not worthy of being elevated within 11 months. Therefore, in normal years, a one month gap between the end of kaddish and the yahrzeit. (http://mykaddishyear.blogspot.com/2017/06/from-mourning-to-memory.html)

So I asked my rabbi whether this year, which has 13 months, I would be saying kaddish for 11 or 12 months. In other words, do the two Adars count as one or two months for purposes of saying kaddish. It turns out that they count as two separate months, so there will be a two month gap between the end of the kaddish obligation and the yahrzeit. In addition, the year of avelut (mourning) is for 12 months, so the year will end a month before the yahrzeit. In other words, kaddish will end and then a month later mourning will end and then a month later I will commemorate the yahrzeit of my father's passing.

All of which feel like a long time from now. But then, after the 11, and then the 12, and then the 13th month has passed, it will feel like an eternity ago. Even the 63+ years I spent with him is receding slowly, inevitably, into the past.

Speed kills

Yesterday was Shabbat. I decided to go to an early afternoon mincha prayer service to give myself more time in the afternoon to rest. This early service, which began at 12:30 p.m., is called "mincha g'dola," the "great mincha." (see https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mincha#Time_frame_for_recitation) As most people go to the later mincha service, there weren't too many people (men), around 15-20. They were spread out all over, fairly typical for an orthodox setting, as most people tend to gravitate toward particular locations in the synagogue space.

I was, as usual, close to the back. Given the sparse crowd, I figured I might be the only one saying kaddish. But when we got to kaddish, another man, seated on the other side of the sanctuary, also began reciting kaddish. He was loud and going at a breakneck speed. His kaddish exploded like a bat out of hell. I had to make a quick decision: either try keeping up with his speed or say it at my own pace. The quickly ruled out the former; his was going too fast for me. But I wasn't happy with the latter option either, having two voices at completely different places in their kaddish at the same time. So I choose a third option: suspending my kaddish until he was finished and then continuing mine. Of course, once he was finished, the others began talking, thinking the prayer service was over. But I persisted in my kaddish, and they got the message, quieted down and responded to my kaddish. Afterward, the other kaddish-sayer apologized to me, saying he didn't hear anyone else saying kaddish. Of course, I thought to myself, he didn't hear: he wasn't listening.

At another synagogue where I pray, the rabbi will sometimes say kaddish along with the mourners just to ensure that everyone is going at the same pace. It's a good idea. The call and response of kaddish demands that people be on the same page. When kaddish is recited together, everyone feels that the other kadddishes are supporting and lifting up your own. Kaddish is not just between you and your deceased or between you and God. It's also between you and other mourners. I don't know what metaphysical effect it has on the soul of your loved one. But I know what effect it has one other mourners. It's comforting to know you are not alone. More, it's a way of binding people together in a shared experience. Unfortunately, that's not what I experienced today.

Hierarchy of sorrows

It happens not infrequently that after services, someone I don't know will ask me for whom I'm saying kaddish. When I say my father, the next question is often "how old was he?" When I answer "90," they usually say something like "well, he lived a good long life." That's true. Life expectancy in the United States currently stands at 78.6 years, and, for men, 76.1 years. (For women, it's 81.1. Interestingly, life expectancy rates have declined for the last two years, perhaps because of the opioid epidemic. https://www.cnn.com/2017/12/21/health/us-life-expectancy-study/index.html)

Of course, no matter the age of your parent, his or her death is, in most cases, a life-changing and devastating event. It's true, however, that I can take some comfort in the fact that he did live a relatively long and certainly full life, maintaining his critical faculties until the end. It's not like the parents of friends of mine who died tragically in the prime of their life, of sudden heart attacks or cancer. My father had a heart bypass operation at age 60 which saved and his life and prolonged it for many years. While he never expected to outlive my mother, who died age age 79 of pancreatic cancer, I am beginning to feel a sense gratitude that I had him for seven more years in relatively good health and spirits.

Last week a met a man in shul who was also saying kaddish. The gabbai (synagogue leader) asked me if he could take over the davening (leading the prayers) at Ashrei, the psalm that begins the concluding portion of the morning service. I was more than happy to oblige. After the service, the man held a small kiddush with cake and scotch--both very tasty. I learned that he was observing the shloshim (30 days after burial) for his son. The loss of a child. The ultimate tragedy. The unthinkable. The sorrow of all sorrows.

It turns out there's even more to the story. His son lived in the same city as my parents. His son led prayer services during the high holidays at the same synagogue as my parents attended. My parents knew him, or knew of him. He and I are connected not only in the present, through our shared kaddishes, but also in the past, through the link between his son and my father. Not all sorrows may be equal, they lead us to the same place: to shul and kaddish.

Trifecta of sorrow

Today I pulled off a trifecta of sorrow: morning, afternoon and evening. I began the day with leading prayers during Shacharit, the morning service, as I am a "chiuv," that is, have priority in leading prayers over all others except those observing the yahrzeit of a parent. As I stand alone next to the bima, the prayer stand, and recite the words of the various prayers and say kaddish, I think of my father (sometime, not all the time) and how much I miss him, his voice, his insights, his humor, his presence.

Then I went shopping at Costco. I'd usually go with my father. He loved going to Costco. He'd pick out some item of clothing, or something else he needed and would feel immensely satisfied. I don't know why Costco shopping gave him such pleasure, but it did, and, inside the cavernous store, I felt his absence.

In the afternoon, I went to the funeral of the mother of a friend. There I was again, less than three weeks removed from my own father's funeral (tomorrow marks the third week of his death), inside a funeral home, listening to a eulogy, gazing at a coffin, witnessing it being hoisted into a hearse, and attending to the haunting words of El Maleh Rachamim, the prayer for the soul of the departed. "Oh God, full of compassion, Who dwells on high, grant true rest upon the wings of the divine presence, in the exalted spheres of the holy and pure, who shine as the resplendence of the firmament, to the soul of . . . who has gone to her supernal world, for charity has been donated in remembrance of her soul, may her rest be in Gan Eden (the Garden of Eden). Therefore may the All-Merfciful One shelter her with the cover of His wings forever, and bind her soul in the bond of life. The Lord is her heritage, may she rest in her resting place in peace, and let us say: Amen."

In the evening, I went to a movie at synagogue called "Who Will Write Our History," about the heroic--really beyond heroic--efforts of Jews in the Warsaw Ghetto, led by Emmanuel Ringlebloom, to document their oppression and ultimate destruction. (See http://whowillwriteourhistory.com/) I had had asked my rabbi if I could attend because one is not supposed to go out to movies during the year of avelut (mourning), though in this case the purpose was educational, not, by any stretch of the imagination, entertainment. He said I could.

It is impossible not to be moved by the story as well as the awful images of suffering, especially on the faces of young children, inside the ghetto. If these were not enough to bring one to tears, the moment when the archive is dug up underneath the Warsaw rubble, five years after the war, having been buried deep under the ground, miraculously surviving the utter destruction of the ghetto, is overwhelming.

So there you have it: kaddish, a funeral and the Holocaust, all rolled up into one 12 hours period. And just to top it off, I watched Ingmar Begmann's The Seventh Seal. Bergmann's stark movies are matching my mood these days, so I'm making a project of going through all of his major works. The movie ends with this famous scene, most of the main characters being led off to their end in a dance of death:

Shiva thoughts of comfort

Sitting shiva is one of the most intense experiences, religious or otherwise, that I've experienced. The days, at the time, felt very long--the prayer services began at 6:45 a.m. and visiting hours ended at 9:30 p.m.--but, looking back, the week went quickly. It's been slightly more a week since I "got up" from sitting shiva, yet it feels as if it happened long ago. As intense as the experience is while undergoing it, it vanishes just as quickly.

I remember everyone who visited. I don't remember everything I or others said. Some conversations were just about catching up with old friends, others about recent or long ago recollections of my father. Some of the words spoken dissipated shortly afterwards, others were burned into my psyche.

One friend commented on the phrase with which visitors comfort mourners: "May God comfort you among the mourners of Zion and Jerusalem." (המקום ינחם אתכם בתוך שאר אבלי ציון וירושלים) 
(See https://www.shiva.com/learning-center/visiting-shiva/what-to-say/comfort)

Except that it phrase doesn't use a usual word for God. Rather, it uses the odd formulation "The Place (המקום)." My friend suggested that "The Place" could refer not only to the God but also to the physical space one inhabits. This was quite fitting as I sat shiva in my father's "place," his apartment, which he furnished so beautifully from a lifetime of collecting art collecting with my mother, z'l. And so my friend suggested that my father's place could also serve as a source of comfort. Comfort can come not only from heaven, but from the world humans create as well.

I was speaking with another friend about my father's love of classical music. He grew up idolizing Arturo Toscanini, even giving my brother the middle name Arturo in his memory. He had a massive LP collection. Those thick black box sets formed part of the backdrop of my childhood. But during his last illness, he stopped listening to music. Whenever I suggested putting on some music, he shook his head no. I thought it would have soothed and comforted him. When I mentioned this to my friend, himself a musicologist, I remembered that my father sometimes made arm movements that seemed as if he were conducting. My friend said that meant that my father was listening to music: he no longer needed to hear it; he had internalized it. He took his music with him. A comforting thought.

I shared an image to another friend about what I felt like being parentless. I imagined a door opening into a dark, dimly lit, space. Someone was shoving me from my familiar world into that space. I would have to find my way in this new uncharted and unlit space. My friend suggested a very different metaphor of living without parents. She said that a parentless child is like a young tree in a forest which has lost the canopy of the trees above. A much more hopeful image. A young tree, even though less protected, continues to grow. One day that tree will provide the canopy to newer trees.  Protection is wanted, but not forever provided.

I will carry these thoughts of comfort during this year of mourning, and beyond. 

Missing Prayers

Many things have changed since my father died. No more visits. No more phone calls. No more meals together. No more talks.

This absence is reflected in words now missing in two of my daily prayers. The amidah or standing prayer, also known as the Shemona Esrey, is a compilation of nineteen blessings. The first three are considered blessings of praise, the last three blessings of thanksgiving, and the middle thirteen blessings of petition. The fifth of these petitionary blessings asks for healing from God, the true and compassionate healer:

A person reciting this blessing in private prayer can add his or her own request (indicated in purple) for the healing of body and soul of a particular person. (see https://www.ou.org/torah/tefillah/shemoneh-esrei/shemoneh_esrei_8/). For about the last ten weeks of my father's life, as the seriousness of his illness became clearer, I added these words to my daily prayers. (Of course, I know the limited efficacy of doing so, having prayed for my mother and other relatives and friends before they died.)

I recited these words in my afternoon prayer about an hour before my father died. Then, for a few days, I didn't pray at all because I was an onen (עונן), the time between death and burial, during which I was exempt from positive commandments, including prayer. After the funeral, I resumed praying. When I came to the prayer for healing, just at the point when I would add the petition on behalf of my father, I paused slightly. My first inclination was to say it, since it had become part of my prayer routine. I then continued without saying it, noting as well as mourning its absence. No matter how ill your loved one becomes, you still pray for their recovery, for some kind of healing, if not in body then in soul. Death took away not only my father, but also my prayer for him.

After you eat a meal, you recite the Grace After Meals, Birkat Ha'mazon (ברכת המזון). Toward the end, there is a section called ha'rachaman during which various verses of a petitionary nature are recited. In the last of these, you add a prayer for your family, beginning with your parents:

The prayer reads: May the One who grants mercy bless my father, my teacher . . . ." My father was truly my teacher. After the first meal I had while siting shiva, I recited the Birkat Ha'mazon. Then I got to these words. I could no longer bless my father. When my mother was alive, I asked for blessings for both her and my father. After she died, I asked for a blessing upon my father. Now I can ask for neither. My family no longer includes parents.

I continue to see these words when I pray and when I recite the Grace After Meals. I see them and I skip them. They no longer apply to me. But they remind me that once I had parents, people who I loved, and then once I had parents who became ill, and then both of them died and no so I can no longer pray for them or bless them. I can recite kaddish for them. I can pray for their souls. I can also pray for myself. I do.

Consolation

Yesterday I "got up" from shiva. That meant that I got to leave my home. Actually, I am required, by Jewish law, to leave my home so that I can go to synagogue to recite kaddish, which I am supposed to do for the next 11 months. And so, around 4:25, I walked to synagogue for the 4:40 minyan (quorum). I was expecting to lead the services, as, for the next three weeks or so, I am "in shloshim," the 30 days following burial, and a person (man) in shloshim has priority to lead the prayer service over all others except for someone (man) observing his parent's yahrzeit (anniversary of death).

As expected, I led mincha (afternoon) and ma'ariv (evening) services, the first I'd attended since my father died. As I approached the bima (prayer stand), the rabbi mentioned that I had just completed my shiva and welcomed me back into the community. That felt nice. I recited the mourner's kaddishes that follow each service. I wasn't the only one reciting them. My voice joined with other voices. I wasn't alone. That also felt nice.

As I was leaving the synagogue following the conclusion of the services, I met a woman who had also been there. She asked me who I was saying kaddish for and told me she was saying kaddish for her father who had passed away just two weeks before. Her wound was also fresh. We talked about our fathers, our relationship with them, and our siblings and our relationship with them as well. The conversation flowed, our words fueled by shared grief. A bond of mutual recognition between mourners. That felt very nice. True consolation.

This, by the way, is another reason why it is good that women say kaddish for their parents. The more women who say kaddish, the more mourners there are to support each other. Women can offer mutual support to other women. But women, when they go to synagogue to say kaddish, can also give and receive consolation to and from male mourners.

Following the services I decided to do something nice for myself. I went to get some frozen yogurt at our local froyo store. I saw they still were selling pistachio flavored yogurt. For the last six weeks of his life, my father had trouble swallowing solid food, but he loved and practically existed on pistachio flavored ice cream and frozen yogurt. Everytime I went shopping, I would buy him more of it. And so, in his honor and memory, I bought some.

It didn't matter that it was really cold outside. I ate it as I walked home. I thought of him. It tasted really good. A small but significant added bit of consolation.