A Daughter's Kaddish by Sarah Birnbach

Author:Sarah Birnbach
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Wonderwell
Published: 2022-01-15T00:00:00+00:00

Other relationships developed as well. Judi Canter, whose mother died before my father, began saying Kaddish before me. We became fast friends over the months we prayed together, and Judi helped advance my Jewish education.

One day, I closed my prayer book before the final Mourner’s Kaddish, proud that I could now recite the blessing without the transliteration. The accomplishment seemed sudden; in reality, the prayer had crept into my consciousness gradually, unnoticeably. It had become part of me.

“Keep your book open to the correct page,” counseled Judi.

“But I’ve memorized the Kaddish. I don’t have to read it anymore,” I boasted.

“We keep the book open to the Mourner’s Kaddish so newcomers and mourners who don’t know the prayer aren’t embarrassed at having to read it. It equalizes all mourners,” she replied.

I immediately reopened my prayer book. No one-upmanship among mourners. Sensitivity to others is a prominent Jewish value.

In that moment, I realized that repeating small (and possibly difficult) behaviors consistently over an extended period of time can produce what seems like sudden, dramatic change.

A few days later, Judi rose for the final Mourner’s Kaddish of her avelut (mourning period). Her obligation was complete.

Because her synagogue didn’t have daily minyanim, she had come to Beth El each morning, but she wouldn’t be returning. We held hands, delaying our goodbyes. And even though we committed to seeing each other, I expected that the demands of our respective lives would override our best intentions. Our hand clasp expressed the consolation of two mourners whose shared path was now diverging.

“It’s kind of strange and hard to explain,” she said after the service. “I’m relieved it’s over, but I’m nervous about moving on without this community. I’ll miss you and the togetherness of the minyaneers. It makes me sad, but I’m sure looking forward to the hours I’ll regain each week.”

“Letting go of the support network must feel a little scary,” I said.

“The problem is, there’s no real way to mark the ending,” Judi noted. “It feels kind of incomplete.”

I just nodded. In a religion so filled with ritual, Judaism lacks a custom to honor the end of an eleven-month journey along grief’s highway. Judi and I shared a tight, lingering hug in the synagogue parking lot, and as we parted, I vowed to make my ending more tangible.

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