remembrance

A lot has happened since my last post.  If you’ve been following my Facebook and Instagram feeds, I have shared a few thoughts on some of what has happened along the way, but for the longest time, so much of it wasn’t my story to tell.  The very, very short version is that my dad was diagnosed at the beginning of the summer with stage 4 pancreatic cancer – and we thought the chemo was working, but then, all of a sudden, it wasn’t anymore.

I remember blowing out the candles on my cake at our family celebration of my birthday at the end of May; I’d wished for more time with my dad, thinking that I was wishing that the early-onset Alzheimer’s he also had would leave him alone just a little while longer, and that he would still know who I was for awhile.  I never once thought that I was actually wishing for more time than we’d have.

It’s only been just short of 2 weeks since he passed away, and it’s still really, really raw.  We didn’t talk every day, but I think the fact that we could mattered more than I’d accounted for.  I’d give a lot to be able to call my dad tonight, even if just to talk about the weather.  (I’m decorating my tree this evening, and it’s raining.  This just doesn’t seem right.)  And I know he’s in a better place, probably having the time of his life, playing riffs that he hasn’t been able to play in ages on a heavenly and perfectly in-tune acoustic bass, and maybe thinking, “Get a grip, kid; I’m fine, you’re going to be fine, and I’ll see you soon.”  But I miss him, all the same.

As I wrote the other day, “This isn’t the first time I’ve mourned anything, but it is definitely the first time I’ve mourned the death of a parent, and this is really hard. And so I’ve been re-reading Lauren Winner’s chapter on mourning in Mudhouse Sabbath again and again over the past week, trying to figure out how to get through this unexpected season without breaking – and while I cannot practically mourn in the ways that my orthodox Jewish friends would, there is a piece of their praxis that I think will be helpful for me: saying Kaddish…”

This is the Kaddish (the part that your friends would say with you is in italics):

May His great Name grow exalted and sanctified (Amen.)
in the world that He created as He willed.
May He give reign to His kingship in your lifetimes and in your days,
and in the lifetimes of the entire Family of Israel,
swiftly and soon. Now say:
(Amen. May His great Name be blessed forever and ever.)
Blessed, praised, glorified, exalted, extolled,
mighty, upraised, and lauded be the Name of the Holy One.
Blessed is He,
beyond any blessing and song,
praise and consolation that are uttered in the world. Now say:
Amen
May there be abundant peace from Heaven
and life upon us and upon all Israel. Now say:
Amen
He Who makes peace in His heights, may He make peace,
upon us and upon all Israel. Now say:
Amen.

There isn’t anything in it about mourning at all, which I suspect is kind of the point.  For those unfamiliar with the idea, you can learn more here, but to sum it up: the basic idea is that twice a day, every day, for an entire year, Jewish mourners are to say the Kaddish with no less than 10 other people in attendance.  I don’t think it’s practical in my context as a follower of Jesus who is still relatively new to New York and only just building new friendships here, to try to gather 10 people every day (much less twice per day) – but I’m hoping to adapt the tradition a bit by asking friends from around the world to join me in saying the Kaddish.  I think there’s something really beautiful about this prayer, and the fact that you’re not allowed to say it alone.

Our culture isn’t set up to accommodate the long and difficult process that mourning the loss of a loved one involves.  We move too fast; we disconnect.  (I found it incredibly refreshing earlier today, when exchanging a typical greeting with an acquaintance in a local store, to receive a real answer.  He asked me how I was; I lied and said I was good, and asked how he was doing – but then he actually told the truth in reply.  I hope his day got better – but I was grateful for the reminder that being real is allowed.)

The Kaddish is a gloria of sorts – a hymn of praise, and a prayer for peace.  It’s about the greatness of God and his ability to meet people – and nations – where they are, and bring them peace.  It will be both beautiful and strange to say this prayer daily during the long, dark, anticipatory days of Advent.  But I will say it anyway.  And I will, as Shauna Neiquist once phrased it, “trust the liturgy” to do its work in me as I do.  And next year, on November 18th, I will light a candle, and remember.