Shunted aside

I haven't been called upon to pray as the prayer leader for two weeks now.  The reasons are several.  There were two days of Rosh Chodesh, the new month, when mourners are excused from davening from the Amud.  There were a string of Yahrzeits last week, days on which men were observing the anniversary of a parent's death.  There is someone who, as the Gabbai calls him, is "a Shloshim", whose parent died within the last month, and who has priority in the pecking order of leading the prayers.  Finally, I am just another avel (mourner) now, and the Gabbai has been calling on other mourners to lead prayers.

How do I feel about this?  On one hand, it's nice not to be obligated to lead prayers almost all the time.  I can show up exactly on time or even a minute late and no one cares.  On the other hand, I was feeling kind of special when I was "the man" to lead prayers.  It was exhausting, but I couldn't help feeling respected and honored to be chosen to stand up while others are seated comfortably, walk to the Bima (prayer stand), put on a Tallit (prayer shawl) and, by the power of my own words, begin the prayer service.  These conflicted feelings are, I suppose, just another rite of passage in this year of mourning.

Watch your speed

What bothers me most about the technical aspect of saying kaddish is when various mourners recite kaddish at different rates of speed.  The shul then is turned into a cacophony of indistinguishable sounds, with those responding to the kaddish trying to pay attention to one particular mourner to recite the "yehay shmai rabba" and "amens" at the right points.  When this happens, kaddish becomes an unfulfilling, sometimes even upsetting, experience.  You don't know whether to speed up, slow down, or just keep on plowing through at your own speed.  If possible, I try to recite kaddish at the same pace as other mourners so that, as a group, we end each paragraph at about the same time.  I want to enhance, or at least not interfere, with the experience of other mourners.

To avoid the cacophony, the Rabbi will also recite kaddish, the unspoken signal being that all mourners are to follow his lead.  But this doesn't always help.  Sometimes the number of mourners simply drown out his voice.  I've also been in shul where the Rabbi and other mourners went so slowly that I became agitated.  I continued at my own pace and then waited for them to catch up.

Equally annoying is when other mourners go too fast and I am left "hanging out to dry." The congregation is left to wonder why someone is still reciting kaddish when everyone else has finished. 

In the laws of saying kaddish in the Artscroll Siddur, it says that only one mourner need say kaddish; however, as not to embarrass other mourners, the custom has arisen for all mourners to recite it.  Nevertheless, the idea seems to be that, in reciting kaddish, the mourners should be as one voice.  The experience of a group coming together in the kaddish brings honor to the congregation, themselves and to those for whom they are saying kaddish.

Reflections on this blog

This blog is helping to clarify my thoughts about the mourning process.  I am gratified that people are reading it.  Judaism teaches that mourning is not to be kept private, and this blog is a way of connecting my inner and outer worlds.  It is not a private journal.  In this way, the blog is like kaddish, the words of an individual expressed in the context of community.  If nothing else, these musings along with my daily kaddishes are reminders that my life will never be the same again.

After a loved one dies, Judaism will not let you pretend that nothing has happened.  Kaddish screams at you: you are a mourner!  You are not whole!  You are in pain!  Don't deny it!  Don't pretend!  Deal with it! But also, more softly: you will survive.  You are not alone.  God is still with you.

Mourners converse about how nonmourners behave

Today after Sabbath services, a fellow asked to speak to me privately.  He asked me how I felt about people putting away their tallises (prayer shawls) at the end of the service while I was reciting the kaddish.  He confided that when he was saying kaddish for his parents, both of whom died within a relatively short period of time, he felt such behavior was disrespectful to him, and, by extension, to his parents.  I had to think about this.  I know that before my mother died, I was careful not to make noise putting away my tephilin while others were reciting kaddish.  I knew inside I should wait until kaddish had concluded before "packing up" my tallis and tephilin, but I often succomed to the urge to get on my way.  After a few moments, I responded that my focus on saying kaddish truly made me unaware of what others were doing at the time.  I also reflected on the natural tendency to jump the gun whenever an activity is winding down.  Of course, our behavior in shul, a place of striving for holiness and sanctity, should be different than during our chol (nonsactified) activity.  But, in truth, it is seldom so.

It was good to have a serious conversation about mourning and kaddish with a former mourner.  I only know that this year of mourning is changing me in some indelible way.  I hope to relate to future mourners the way I know I should.

Feeling my mother's presence

I've tried so hard to feel my mother's presence.  It hasn't been easy.  It's a feeling that seems to be fading with time.  Mostly there's an absence.  When I asked my father if and how he felt his wife's presence, he said there was mostly "silence."  I haven't dreamed of her for a while.  I'm getting used to calling my "parents' home" and speaking just to my father.  It will always be my parents' home even if only one of my parents lives there now.  I go through my work day as I always did, not even thinking that my mother's gone.  It's difficult to think of her when I pray, a bit easier when I say kaddish.

Yesterday morning, saying kaddish, her presence came over me.  I felt a remnant of the feeling I would have when I'd come to visit after a long absence and, as I entered my parents' home, she would kiss me and we'd embrace.  When you get to the last line of kaddish about God making peace in the heavens and on earth, you take three steps back and bow to the left, the right and then forward.  These steps took me away from her presence.  The kaddish had brought me nearer to her and then had taken me away.