A Year of Kaddish

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.