A Year of Kaddish

It was an inauspicious beginning to the end last Sunday night, the night that began my last day of eleven months of saying Kaddish. We were sitting outside on a warm New England summer evening — eight of us from our so-called Gourmet Club, a group of friends who get together for dinner every few months for what is now going on more than 20 years. That somehow was a comforting way to begin my last day of saying Kaddish. I excused myself a little before 8 o’clock to make the minyan.

When I got to shul, two men were sitting around, waiting for the 8:20 p.m. start. I made three. Another walked in and another. I went up to the bima, opened the oversized ArtScroll siddur or prayer book that prayer leaders use to page 232, the start of the afternoon service, and placed the tallit or prayer shawl next to the book. I wanted to be ready to lead as soon as the tenth man walked in. By 8:20, there were only six of us. The rabbi made a few phone calls on his cell phone, but it was Sunday night in late June. No one answered. And so we davened silently and by ourselves. Because we didn’t have a minyan, neither I or the other mourner could say Kaddish. I felt disappointed. This wasn’t how I envisioned the end of my eleven months unfolding.

I knew — or should I say, I had faith that we would be okay for shacharit, the morning service, on Monday, as mornings for some reason rarely lack a minyan. But I was worried that come Monday evening, we might not have a minyan again for mincha, the very last afternoon service I would daven or lead as a mourner, until, of course, I say Kaddish again next month, on my mother’s yahrzeit,  the one-year anniversary of her passing.

And so I did something unusual — for me. I reached out to friends, inviting them to join me at the minyan Monday night, hoping to ensure we would have at least 10 there. I emailed Sam, David, and Michael, the three other men who I had left at our summer dinner, asking if they were free Monday night. [Unlike Beth El, my egalitarian Conservative synagogue, where women count as part of a minyan, a Beth David minyan requires 10 men. And while I could have hedged my bets and just gone to Beth El for the last time, I had been going to Beth David so regularly that it just felt right to end among the men in this new community of mine.] Then, I thought who else I could ask, who at Beth David, might be willing to come. Because I didn’t want to rely on my three dinner comrades, since two of them are devout secular Jews, and all three would identify as religious skeptics. Fortunately, three other names came to mind and I called or emailed them. I felt good about taking the initiative and being pro-active. Maybe this was another lesson from on High, I thought. Build it and they will come.

I got up early Monday morning and, though, my bike ride to Beth David takes only minutes – it’s only 3-1/2 blocks away – I rode slowly, breathing in the warm summer morning air and thinking about the past 11 months. The cold days in the winter, the days turned dark before 5 o’clock, the times I searched for a shul or minyan when traveling in places like Key West, Youngstown, Ohio or New York. The days of angst when I was juggling between two different synagogues.

I got to shul, as I normally did, early – two others were already there, and I put my tallis on and then wrapped my teffilin. When the clock struck 6:30, I began chanting the morning prayers from the bima, facing the Ark, my back to the minyan. The morning service ended and I went about my day’s work.

I returned a little after 8 p.m., hopeful that we would have a minyan. There was one guy out front and two inside the chapel, including one of the guys I had called. That was a good sign.  Another few walked in, then a few more. We had 10, a minyan, and at 8:20, I began davening mincha. With my back to the room, I could hear the door open; someone else had come in. And again, I heard the door open. And again. We did it, I thought, feeling pleased and grateful. More than enough.

When I had asked Rabbi Adler the day before if there were any customs associated with the last day of saying Kaddish, he shook his head. “Just daven (meaning, just lead the service) and do it with a lot of kavanah,” the Hebrew term for spiritual intentionality or real soulful focus. And so I did. One friend, recalling the end of his 11 months, said he could barely make his way through the last Kaddish, so emotional was he. That didn’t happen to me, but I felt as though I was coming to an end, to a finish line of sorts.

I finished saying Kaddish, the final prayer of mincha, and I turned to Rabbi Adler, who was standing nearby.

“You’re done,” he said. I took the tallis off and handed it to Adam, the other mourner in the minyan, whose mother died way too young just a few months ago. He would daven ma’ariv, the evening service. The rabbi announced for those who didn’t know that I had just completed the 11 months of saying Kaddish, and as I returned to my seat, one of the guys I’d asked to come hugged me, others shook my hand, all offering me a “Yasher Koach,” a traditional remark loosely translated as “More Power to You.”

When it came to saying Kaddish for the ma’ariv service, tthe rabbi announced, as he normally does, “Kaddish.” For the last 11 months, either by myself or with other mourners present, I’ve said that ancient Aramaic prayer. This time, strangely, I didn’t say it. I just listened. And I realized that I had walked through a passageway.

The Jewish process of mourning is fascinating in the way it treats time. It begins between the time of death and the burial. Afterwards, there’s the period of sitting shiva, the seven-days when one stays home, pulled away from work and everyday life, a time to reflect and be consoled. From there, one moves into sholoshim, the 30-day period, when one returns into the community and heads back to work, often symbolized by taking a walk around the block. But it’s a time that is still seen as a fragile period. And then, there’s the 11 months, the sholoshim or first 30-day period included in that longer extended time. Yet it doesn’t end there.

Though I’ve honored the obligation of  saying Kaddish three times daily for the past 11 months – more or less, the tradition recognizes one more month of mourning, without saying Kaddish. Perhaps it’s seen as a time to think back on the past year, on the absence of life without Mom; but also, perhaps, it’s a time to think about what’s next going forward. And maybe, as a friend suggested the other day, what else I might commit to in such an intense way to for the next 11 months of my life.

Whatever the future holds, I will say this:  last Monday evening, as I rode my bike home, I was not feeling mournful. I was feeling shalom and shalem; at peace and complete. I felt fulfilled for what 11 months ago felt like such a daunting obligation.  And I must say, I also felt proud. For as I rode home, I couldn’t help but punch my arms into the air skyward, quietly shouting, “Ya-hoo! Ya-hoo!”

“You don’t need to explain,” one of the guys said to me the other night. He was making sure we had a minyan for the next morning. His statement came as I was about to explain why I wouldn’t be there the next morning, this morning.

It happened last night. I was outside shul, unlocking my bike after ma’ariv, and as he walked by, he stopped and asked a simple question: “Len, will you be here tomorrow morning?”

I paused to think for a moment. “No,” I said, and then began to stutter my reason why I would not be there, when he said, “You don’t need to explain.” The response stuck to my gut and then shot up to my head like some kind of ah-hah moment.

I’d heard a variation on those same words, once before, when I was juggling back and forth between Beth El and Beth David. I had been at Beth El Shabbat morning, but was on my way to Beth David for the end of Shabbat late one Saturday afternoon, when I met the gabbi who also was walking back to shul along Dover Road. “Were you at Beth El this morning?” he asked. I said I was and began to explain how I decided when to go where and why. “You don’t need to explain,” he said. Or maybe he said, “You don’t need to defend yourself.” I’m not sure, but the point was the same. I didn’t need to justify my whereabouts or my decisions or my thinking.

What I also heard between the lines was that we are all responsible adults and we treat each other as such. My personal spiritual story might be interesting, but it doesn’t need to be justified.

I’m taking this revelation – something I’ve always known but don’t always act as though I do — as one of the blessings I’ve received from nearly a year of daily prayer. Put another way, I’m taking this message as a concrete example of what it means to see God as greater and holier than before, an expansive view, which, in part, is what the Kaddish is all about.

I began to think about where else in my life I find a need to explain myself when it’s unnecessary. Ironically, in this last week of my 11 months of saying Kaddish, one of my loyal corporate clients, Aetna Inc., asked if I was available to cover a very early-morning shift, editing and updating its website for employees. For a moment, when I received the email-request, my default reaction was one of angst. I had envisioned this last week, attending shul every morning and evening, kicking it in to the finish line, as I once did when I ran the quarter-mile in high school. I had thought about going in very early or after services, but both were problematic. In the end, I said, yes to Aetna, except that I couldn’t come in next Monday until a couple hours later than my normal start, Monday being the last day I’m saying Kaddish and I wasn’t going to miss that. But, here’s the kicker: I didn’t explain why I needed to come in late on Monday. And guess what? They said that was fine. No questions asked.

I’m not saying there aren’t times when we need to explain ourselves. Of course, there are. But one of the lessons I’m coming away with over this past year is to stand more assuredly in my space. It’s how the Mussar masters define humility: occupy a rightful space, neither too much nor too little.

The first day of summer was a warm one here, and it felt good to ride to shul a little after 6 this morning in short sleeves.

“Your 11 months of saying Kaddish is up soon isn’t it?” a fellow davener asked me yesterday afternoon as we were walking in for mincha.

He was right. Today, or actually, Sunday, marked my last week of the 11 months. This evening at services, I observed the poetry of those in attendance. A couple teenagers, done with school for the year, but happy to make part of the minyan. And a 90-something year old who doesn’t speak English, just Yiddish and Russian, and of course, prays in Hebrew. He had a yarhzeit tonight, so I davened mincha and he followed with the ma’ariv service.

It was still warm when we walked out about a quarter to nine tonight. Ahh, summer in the Northeast. When it’s not humid, and it wasn’t too bad today, it’s lovely.

We were sitting in shul, waiting for the tenth man to make a minyan one evening recently. Mincha, the afternoon service, was scheduled for 8:05 p.m., which gave us nearly 10 minutes before shkiah, or sunset, as we reached closer to the summer solstice. This week , for example, the afternoon service doesn’t begin until 8:15 p.m.

I am forever learning something new within the world of ritual and prayer, especially at Beth David Synagogue, the Orthodox shul I daven at most mornings and evenings these days.

In walked the tenth man, and we were set to go. Tradition has it that one of the avelim, or mourners, leads the service. And if more than one is present, there’s an intricate practice of splitting the service, having one, for example, do mincha and one do ma’ariv, or one daven Monday morning and another Tuesday morning. Normally, the gabbi, the one in charge of running the service, coordinates that. But he was away at a conference in Serbia that week, and so us commoners were left to rule on our own.

One of the guys who arrived that evening is a longtime member and someone who also is saying Kaddish for his mother. But he doesn’t come regularly. He and I were the only mourners that evening, and since I’m the new kid on the block, my nature was to defer to him.

But apparently he knew I’ve been coming regularly, and so, he insisted that I daven, that I lead the service. “It’s your place,” he said. I asked him a couple days later when I next saw him what he meant by that, and he explained. “This is where you daven regularly. I’m not saying Kaddish everyday.” If I came in to your house I wouldn’t presume to sit in your chair. I wouldn’t take your place. It’s the same here, he went on.

It got me thinking later about the concept in Jewish ritual of makom kavua, a fixed place for prayer. Traditionally, one has a special or set place, your seat in which to pray. When the process of mourning begins, tradition has it that one moves to another place to symbolize the deep change in your life, that things no longer are the way they used to be.

My fellow davener’s kind gesture, insisting that I lead the service, as has been my custom – more or less – was in someway an extension of that concept. Showing honor, respect and support for the sacred places where one finds comfort and connects with God.

As I rode off on my bike that evening, I thought about other places in my life where I touch the sparks of holiness. One is a path along Trout Brook where I walk and run our two dogs. I cross over a couple blocks of sidewalk and through a busy intersection; and there I am — in the midst of a grove of maple trees, grassland and a gurgling brook, separated from everything. Sometimes, I even feel like I could be hundreds of miles away in a wilderness or in the Green Mountains of Vermont or the granite tops of Yosemite.

As it happened last night, I returned to the minyan at Beth El, the other synagogue in my life. It was the second Tuesday of the month, which meant Beth El’s monthly board of trustees meeting, the last meeting before this Sunday’s annual meeting. For me, it also represented a closing chapter: after three years on the board, I’d decided not to stand for another two-year term. So last night was my last board meeting. In the chapel before the meeting,  I took my designated seat, four rows from the bima, left side, next to the center aisle, the place I had chosen when I returned from California after sitting shiva last summer.

I admit, it felt a little bit like re-visiting my old high school since I haven’t been attending weekday services there much anymore. One of the regulars even said, “Welcome back,” when I walked in.

I took my seat, waiting for the service to begin, and I wondered if I’d be asked to lead part of the service like I used to when I was a regular. Then I recalled my recent experience at Beth David, and I said to myself, Why should I expect to lead? There are probably other mourners here leading the services in my absence. I settled back in my seat only to hear Beth El’s gabbi call to me from the back of the chapel: “Len, you want to do mincha?”

“Sure,” I said, walking to the bima and feeling honored.

I woke up around three this morning, but could not fall back asleep. Finally, around five, I think I dozed off, but it didn’t feel like quality sleep. That French Press coffee (caffeinated) that I had with dinner at 2T must have done it, I thought. Or maybe it was the call with a friend and teacher from Vancouver after 9 o’clock last night that got me thinking in the middle of the night.

Whatever, when I woke again and looked at the clock, it was six o’clock, the time I normally get out of bed to go to minyan. For a moment, I thought, I’m going to be tired all day if I get up now. And I turned over, burying my head in the pillow, hoping and praying before official prayer services began that I might get some quality sleep. I’d skip the minyan this morning. But another voice, the voice who pushes me, who believes I can suck it up and follow through, yanked me from my false slumber.

I got up. I got dressed. I grabbed my tallis bag and my tefillin bag. And I was out the door and on my bike, riding to shul. I felt better after leading most of the service. It was warm and sunny outside when I walked out.

I’ve been thinking lately about what it means to stick with a commitment, to follow through, especially for the long haul, now that I’m rounding third base, as it were. The 11 months of saying Kaddish is nearing its end. The 16th of Tammuz marks my last day, which corresponds to June 28. It may be a mitzvah or a commandment to say Kaddish daily in my circumstance, but how does that play out when we live in a world where feeling commanded by a Higher Authority is not a given? There’s a concept in something called neo-traditionalism called “voluntary obligation.” Which sounds like an oxymoron, but it may be what got me out of bed this morning. I know there are other places in my life where, commanded or not, I could benefit from  feeling moved to push harder, climb higher, be a better person.