Kaddish of hope and life

This week my father fell again.  X-rays revealed no new break.  Thank God!  I offer the prayer, in the words of Psalm 94, recited at the end of morning services each Wednesday, "If I said 'my foot has slipped', your kindness, God, has supported me".  This new crisis averted suggested another understanding of the Kaddish.  It has oft been noted that the Kaddish says nothing about death.  Its central idea is that God's name should be made great and brought into the world.  Its message is one of hope and life.  It is not unusual that after a spouse dies, especially when married for a long time (my parents were married 57 years), the surviving spouse has difficulty coping and suffers downward spiriling health.  Perhaps the Kaddish is meant not only as a memorial to those who departed this life, but also as a message of hope and life to those who have experienced the loss.  As I recite Kaddish for my mother, I pray that my father continues to know "abundant peace, and life, upon us and upon all Israel."

Going through the motions

Another day of davening today.  With 10 weeks of experience under my belt, the words are flowing out of the my mouth rather smoothly these days.  Less stumbles, less mistakes.  The same words over and over again.  The Mourner's Kaddish I know by heart, the Rabbi's Kaddish, which is longer, almost by heart.   But with any routine, it can become meaningless, thoughtless.  Today, feeling particularly emotional, I tried extra hard to concentrate on what I was saying as I lead services.  I slowed it down, the result being that we finished a few minutes later than usual, and that was without the Tachnun, omitted because today is Tu B'Shvat.  Wouldn't you know it, someone came up afterwards and admonished me that I'd slowed down too much.  So tomorrow I'll try to pick up the pace again, somehow trying to make the routine one of meaning.  I'll be satisfied even if the meaning of my words emerges occasionally.

Seeing myself in others

Recently a man began coming to Minyan.  He spoke to the Rabbi when he came in.  He then davened from the Amud (led the prayers).  From what I overheard, he had just finished sitting shiva for his mother.  I recognized his look, the look that speaks of pain and loss.  One of the inevitable facts of mourning is self-absorption.  The loss of my mother is deeply personal.   Going to minyan every day brings me into contact with other mourners.  Hearing others say Kaddish, seeing others who have the same look I did when I first starting attending Minyan after my shiva ended helps me to see beyond my personal loss, toward a universal understanding of life and death.

Quality or quantity?

Every day I go to shul twice, once in the morning for Shacharit and once in the late afternoon for Mincha and Ma'ariv.  In Shacharit, I recite Kaddish five times (not including the Reader's Kaddish), the Rabbi's Kaddish two times and the Mourner's Kaddish three times.  At the end of Mincha I recite the Mourner's Kaddish.  The Rabbi then gives a short d'var halacha (a few words about a Jewish law) after which I recite the Rabbi's Kaddish.  At the end of Ma'ariv I again recite the Mourner's Kaddish.  This adds up to eight Kaddishes per day, three Rabbi's Kaddishes and five Mourner's Kaddishes.  Given an 11 month period of mourning, or about 332 days, I will recite Kaddish approximately 2,656 times.

While I endeavor every time I say Kaddish to think of my mother and my loss, many times I'm just uttering words, even more so if I feel rushed by others.  Saying Kaddish might actually be more meaningful if I said it less often.  There may be some reason why I'm required to recite it so often, but it doesn't really feel connected to my mourning.  However, there are times--and it always happens unexpectedly--that I feel my mother's presence as the words leave my mouth and tears come to my eyes and I am brought into some kind of otherworldly connection with her.  Lord, let these feelings never leave me.

For my own sake, my father must live!

Of course, I want my father to live for many years to come.  But more, I need my father to live.  For my own selfish reasons, I can't have him die.  I told him so when I visited him last week.  I need him to recover from his broken hip and resume an independent life.  I know that a broken hip often marks the beginning of cascade of physical ailments that lead to death.   In my emotional state, I cannot deal with the death--or even any of the precursor ailments to death--of my one living parent.  I need this year to grieve for my mother.  I don't want this year of Kaddish for my mother to be clouded by concerns for my father's health.   I know it's not in my hands.  But I hope, I pray, that my father and my God will allow me the time and emotional space to come to terms with losing my mother.