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!”