Today, I thank Rabbi David Stern, the senior rabbi of Temple Emanu-El in Dallas, for teaching me about the beauty, power, and even the angst of yizkor. I left Dallas for Boston in 2004, but Rabbi Stern’s lesson of a decade ago remains with me. We should participate in yizkor no matter how fearful we are of reliving – and sharing – our pain.

As a member of the chorus, I sat in the chorus loft on Yom Kippur in October 2000 as Rabbi Stern, wearing the all-white robes of the High Holy Days, approached the bimah, his face solemn. Hundreds of congregants sat before him in the sanctuary. Our usually energetic, smiling rabbi seemed near tears as he was about to speak. Then 39, Rabbi Stern confided that for the first time, he was joining the company of mourners at yizkor on Yom Kippur. His mother had died the previous May.

Rabbi David Stern

“I have gone back and forth between dreading this yizkor service, and embracing it. … I have also gone back and forth between choosing to talk about my own grief or just keeping it my own,” he said. He would, he said, follow the advice his mother likely would have given him: to speak about his experiences only to the extent it could help others.

It seemed as if the rabbi spoke directly to me; as a writer, I had first resisted then embraced the idea of publicly sharing my grief as a way to help others figure out how to cope. I joined the rank of mourners in 1986 early in life – at age 21 when my 23-year-old brother was killed in a car accident. At the time, I was unschooled in most of the practices of my faith, unaware even of yizkor’s existence.

Rabbi Stern told us about the first Shabbat dinner with his family after his mother’s death. Overcome with grief, he was reluctant to say the candle blessing so he pushed his sister to do it. She got as far as “Baruch ata Adonai,” and stopped. Everyone at the table took a deep breath – and together the family finished the prayer. Then he started to lead the blessing of the wine and halted after the first three words. “We were in every way out of balance. (We had) a sense of emptiness and loss so sharp-edged that it took our breath and our words away. But we all stammered our way through the Kiddush, and then the motzi too, and sat down – what else? – to eat some more.”

Tears streamed from my eyes as the rabbi recalled how he struggled again a few weeks later to speak at another Shabbat dinner. But that time, he realized that stumbling over the words was “probably just right.” “Because in our grief, Baruch ata Adonai can be the hardest words to say – and sometimes they are the most we can say. … Because sometimes cursing feels more honest than blessing, and we don’t feel like blessing at all.” He spoke to my once-battered soul. For years after my brother’s death, I struggled to find comfort. Religion was no help. I could not pray. I did not know how to pray. I could only question why.

“The mourner’s speech,” Rabbi Stern continued, “is filled with pauses and ellipses – the dot, dot, dots that cover the moments when we need to take a breath and get composed again, when we need to try to believe again.”

God, he said, was present during even uncomfortable pauses in prayer. “Hear our fractured prayers, dear God. Be present in our silences on this Day of Awe. Be with us as we inch towards wholeness. And help us still dare to set tables of commitment and hope….”

Then, all of us stood and began the Mourner’s Kaddish. In the chorus loft, tears flowed. Near me, a woman who recently lost both her husband and son cried openly. She could not say the prayer, and I could not finish it, though it was 14 years after my brother’s death, and I was well acquainted with the words. Still, the moment, largely without words, felt more like praying to me than ever before. Around me, I sensed just how close many of us clutched memories of loved ones to our hearts. It did not matter whether we uttered one word or none at all during the Kaddish. It was okay to stumble.

Note: This post, excerpted from my yet-to-be-published memoir, also is published in this week’s Jewish Advocate.

Note: Photo of Rabbi Stern is from the Temple Emanu-El website.

It is not just about the grumpiness that accompanies my hunger. There is dizziness, near-nausea, and a frenetic, temporary personality style that annoys anyone within five feet. I once consulted a nutritionist who prescribed more protein and regular healthy snacking. And yet, no bona-fide reason excuses me from fasting each Yom Kippur. It is my choice. Call me a Yom Kippur slacker.

I annually attend break fasts, usually at a fellow chorus member’s house and join in the sighs of relief as we are surrounded by food aplenty. Because of singing in several services, I generally will have skipped an afternoon snack, so by my definition, I am beyond ravenous. And yet, what about those who truly fasted? Should they not get the first place in the food line? Am I a hypocrite for even coming to a break fast? I go because I treasure the company of friends. Few of us share notes on whether we fasted.

Maybe since fasting is so tough, I should find something else to give up on Yom Kippur.

Possible Yom Kippur Fast substitutes:

Starbucks Iced Chai Tea

• Venti Non-fat Iced Chai from the local Starbanks — oops, Starbucks.
• Reading the morning newspaper.
• Checking email, Facebook, Twitter, any Internet site.
• Grande Non-fat Iced Chai.
• Caffeine in any form, especially chocolate.

  
  

  

  Suat Eman photo, freedigitalphotos.net

  
  

For me, it is a change to even contemplate fasting. In my childhood, my family never attended High Holy Day services. We had apples and honey at the table to mark a sweet Jewish New Year on Rosh Hashanah. None of us were observant. I am a neophyte to my own religion in many ways. I celebrated my adult bat mitzvah in 2006 – four years ago. I am starting to mark Shabbat in my own home with my husband and toddler. Only during the last decade have I regularly attended High Holy Day services, usually as a member of my temple chorus. My journey closer to Judaism is in constant flux. Some day, I may try to fast again.

So now that I’m confessing, what about you? Do you fast each Yom Kippur? If you do not, what might you give up instead? Or if we call ourselves Yom Kippur slackers, should we just accept what we are and move on?

Note: Per agreement with free digital photos, here is the link to photographer Suet Eman’s portfolio: http://www.freedigitalphotos.net/images/view_photog.php?photogid=151

My temple chorus began rehearsals this week for High Holy day services. I relaxed as we sang Avinu Malkenu, so well known to me that the words flow easily from my tongue. I tensed when we started working on Sh’ma Koleynu, the opening anthem for Erev Rosh Hashanah. I knew neither the tune nor the words. I gave myself a challenge: By the time High Holy Days starts, I want to understand this particular prayer.

I will learn to treasure it. I do not want to sing this opening piece hidden behind my chorus binder. Nor do I want to sing the prayer as if it were just words and notes on paper. Experience what could be a majestic beginning to the Days of Awe. That is my goal – and challenge.

At rehearsal, our chorus stumbled some as we first sight-read a version of Sh’ma Koleynu written by an unknown composer. The piece called for singing with movement and energy. We sang it slowly and unsurely at first. Then our cantor at Temple Isaiah in Lexington, Mass., sang it. Even with a cold hampering her, she sang soulfully. We tried again as a chorus, and our second attempt was more melodic. And yet, I still felt wooden as I sang. I knew the words, “Sh’ma Koleynu,” meant “Hear our voices.” But that was about all I understood.

The cantor asked who knew the translation. A young man in the chorus translated it word by word, then the cantor summarized. By singing this piece, we are expressing a sense of longing that we want our prayers to be heard for a good year for us – and for the congregation. Realize, she told us, that this piece sets the tone for the High Holy Days. Ah, it is a prayer that issues a plea that the Lord hears our prayers for a good year, not just for ourselves but for everyone in the sanctuary. That I could grasp. I looked at the piece some more and recognized more Hebrew words. T’filah, I knew, meant prayer. So “t’filateynu” simply translates to “our prayers.”

Every year, the High Holy Days remind me how long my journey closer to my faith will be – a lifelong journey. I did not attend High Holy Day services during childhood. My first experience with Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur services was in college when I went to a campus service with an Orthodox student. I understood nothing. I rarely went to a service again until about a decade ago when I became a regular at High Holy Day services as a chorus member. Singing in the services makes the liturgy more accessible to me. To sing something, I push myself to understand the lyrics, whether the piece is a prayer or a Broadway show tune.

Roughly three weeks remain until Rosh Hashanah. I will begin responding to my own challenge in the easiest way I know how – by understanding the first phrase of the song. “Sh’ma koleynu Adonai Eloheynu.” Hear our voices, Lord our G-d.

As Jews, do we let our faith down and risk its future if we do not observe Jewish practices? Rabbi Amy R. Perlin raises that question in her interpretation of this week’s Torah portion in Deuteronomy, which says, “You are not to do, each man, whatever is right in his (own) eyes.” She makes the case that our modern way – ‘doing whatever we please’ – “could cost us our Jewish future.” But what is the alternative?

If we strictly followed that Biblical passage, would Jewish leaders start preaching that all of us must become strict adherents to Jewish practices? I was nearly 40 years old before I made an attempt to practice any Jewish ritual. I, like Rabbi Perlin, want to see Judaism thrive, but want to retain the freedom we have to decide how we want to be Jews.

As a child, being Jewish meant I was different. My brothers and I were the only Jews in our rural Ohio school system. Being Jewish had little to do with religion, spirituality, marking Shabbat, or adhering to the laws of the Torah. We never attended temple services; the temple was an hour’s drive away. At home, we did not light Shabbat candles. We saw ourselves as no less Jewish than the most observant Jews in the world.

Now, with a family of my own, I make attempts to bring Jewish practices into our home. I celebrated my adult bat mitzvah five years ago yet admittedly still fall into that group that Rabbi Perlin describes, those Jews who do whatever they please when it comes to rituals. Some Fridays, my family of three marks Shabbat by lighting candles, eating challah, saying blessings, and singing songs. Some Fridays, we attend services. We often participate in events at our temple. We do mark Jewish holidays. Some Fridays, we do nothing at all to recognize the start of Shabbat.

Rabbi Perlin writes about how the voices in Deuteronomy “challenge us to establish a balance between our spiritual needs and convenience with our communal needs for a standardized Jewish practice and sense of religious obligation that will ensure our survival.” It is a weighty challenge. Is it convenience that makes my family sporadic observers of Jewish ritual? No, not really. My husband and I are still on a learning curve in Judaism. Yes, it is the religion of our birth, but neither of us grew up in homes where our parents made Jewish ritual a regular part of our lives. We are learning slowly what it is like to try to apply the brakes on Friday nights and experience the beauty of Shabbat. I would like to do more. I do not have a role model encouraging me or teaching me how to become more observant. Maybe that makes it harder to walk down a more observant path. Every step I take, though, I find myself wanting to do a little more.

Would I enjoy this journey closer to my faith as much if someone were telling me what I should do and when? I doubt it. As a Reform Jew, I treasure the freedom given to this branch of Judaism. I treasure the differences among the Jews at my own Reform temple. Some openly do not believe in a God. Some regularly study and discuss the Torah at Saturday services. When the timing is right, I will open more books. For now, I am comfortable with where I am within my faith. I am as Jewish as I want to be.

Read the article

My search for a community initially began in 1986 because I felt the absence of a strong community after my 23-year-old brother’s death in car accident. I was in my last year of college in an accelerated graduate program. I was somewhat disconnected from my undergraduate friends because my senior year was mostly spent with graduate students. My parents, my two brothers, and I never felt that connected to our town, a rural Ohio community where we were among the only Jews. Back then, none of us belonged to a temple. We had friends scattered around the country and family – and they offered comfort. But there was no communal outpouring of support. It came in bits and pieces.

Earlier this week, my husband, toddler and I again went to a free summer concert in our suburban Boston town of Lexington. As I sat watching a community band play in a gazebo and eying my running toddler, I saw several familiar faces. They all, I realized, were a part of my growing community. There were members from our temple. There was a Mom and her little girl, from a music class for parents and tots. There were the numerous dog owners our son has introduced us to at the last several band concerts. There were neighbors. And there were faces I did not know but trusted because of the warmth in their eyes as they watched me or my husband chase after our 2-year-old. I felt at home in that little park.

Community is not merely about the religion to which we belong. It’s the people in the town we live. It is the people who are at the same stage in life and share something in common – and it is those who are not. It is our neighbors. It is the people we agree to let into our lives. In those first years after I lost my brother, my circle of friends was small. It was hard to talk to my long-time friends at the time; it was harder to open up to new friends. Now, the loss of my brother is more than 20 years old. Yes, I am writing a book about loss and faith, but in my daily life, it is the present that is my focus. I am much more open to welcoming others into my circle. Closer to my faith, I am more at peace and at ease. In a sense, Judaism has given me the gift of community, but not just the community I find when I slip into a seat at a Friday night service.

Read the article

The vendor pulled out two popsicles, peeled back the top of the wrappers, and handed them to the children. The kids ran off, smiling and licking the treats. A man sitting nearby tried to offer the vendor money to pay for the popsicles; this man did not know the children, but did not want the vendor to lose money. The ice cream man refused the offer.  His was a mitzvah in the park, a genuine act of kindness.

Photo by Salvatore Vuono

“It was $3,” he said to me as I watched my toddler run between the grass and sidewalk. “It won’t make me rich or poor.” To him, what matters most is putting smiles on kids’ faces.

Standing outside the ice cream truck, we chatted more as a wind ensemble played marches and Broadway tunes at a free concert in a Lexington park. The ice cream vendor has six children and a seventh on the way; his kids range in age from 2 ½ to 14. He has driven this ice cream truck since 1994 – close to two decades. He said he loves his job. As we spoke, a little boy, perhaps 8 or 9, ran up, and the vendor put his arm around the boy’s shoulders. The vendor said he had been selling ice cream to the boy since he was a toddler, and he even remembered the name of the boy’s first-ever ice cream purchase.

I will always remember this vendor. He lost a little money, but celebrated the loss. To him, children’s smiles are priceless. To him, a job is not just about every dollar made.  I spent about four hours last spring participating in my temple’s mitzvah day; I played flute in a band at an assisted living home and loved the experience. It was a mitzvah, but an organized one.

What I treasured most about the mitzvah I witnessed last night was its spontaneity. The ice cream vendor reminded me that helping others does not always have to be scheduled into our lives. It is something that can – and often should – happen naturally.

My brother died in 1986 in a car accident after falling asleep at the wheel. Though my family was not observant, we followed Jewish custom and moved quickly to bury and memorialize him. That the rabbi, who my family met only shortly before the funeral, gave the eulogy was the norm in the 1980s. Now, rabbis act more as facilitator at funerals. They typically ask family members if they want to speak about their loved one. I love that they ask despite a recent Huffington Post article lamenting how some funerals have become fiascos because of too many self-aggrandizing, drawn-out eulogies.

The Huffington Post piece’s author, Rabbi Eric H. Yoffie, said he was disturbed by funerals he witnessed in recent years. Yoffie, president of the Union for Reform Judaism, said he left some services “distressed and even indignant rather than consoled” because of eulogies that were “self-serving, inappropriate, or badly prepared.” I understand such concerns, but argue that it’s better to err on the side of inclusion. Talking about the person we lost is a part of healing for mourners. So is hearing friends say something even if their speech is a bit off.

In my yet-to-be published memoir, I write about my brother’s funeral and the exclusion I felt when I was not asked to even add my thoughts as the rabbi wrote the eulogy.

I hoped for solace, some explanation, and a path to follow for the rest of this day and onward as my family entered the funeral home sanctuary and sat in the front row. … The rabbi spoke of my brother as he was, “never one to approach life hesitantly.” He described Kevin as the one who “embraced new situations and challenges.” He spoke about Kevin’s friendship to others, his love for sports, his love for his family. The picture seemed incomplete. The essence of the brother I knew was missing. Kevin, while eager to dash down a mountain on snow skis or across a ramp on water skis, did not embrace other challenges. He often wanted a bit of the easy way out, something I admired because I tended to pick the most challenging roads. … The eulogy left me wanting for more.

My brother Kevin and I in 1983 on a ski vacation in Utah

A few years ago, I spoke with the rabbi who officiated at my brother’s funeral. He said he would have handled things differently if he were overseeing the service today. He would have asked if others wanted to speak. He would have made sure that my thoughts on my brother were incorporated. Whether I would have wanted to speak if asked, I do not know. My brother was killed suddenly. All of us were in shock. I could barely speak the morning of my brother’s funeral. Yet, I think rabbis should continue to ask mourners if they want to speak or whether they want others to give eulogies.

Keep funerals participatory. Clergy should give advice on what makes a suitable eulogy so funerals do not become insufferable or have inappropriate content. They should urge family members to keep the number of speakers low. Sitting through a long funeral for a loved one can be traumatic and painful. Mourners need to hear that others loved the deceased, but the conversation can and should continue after the funeral ends.

My mother, cousin, and I all gave eulogies at my grandmother’s funeral in 2004. Each of volunteered when the rabbi asked who wanted to speak at the funeral. Our eulogies were all different and loving. My Grandma Pearl, who died at age 102, gave her family and friends beautiful legacies – a love for music, art, and most of all, family. Almost a year later, at the unveiling for my grandmother, about 20 family members and friends gathered at the cemetery and shared memories. Each of us seemed to know that we did not need to say much. What was important was that our voices – on behalf of my Grandma Pearl — were heard.