Of Dads and Candles

I'm not a very organized person. So, when we brought home our photos of our dearly departed dads from Yom Kippur services, they kind of never got put away.  So every Friday night when we light the Shabbat candles, there they are, hangin' out on the sideboard!  We've gotten used to having them there, and they've come to belong there.

A few days ago, we brought out the Hanukkah menorahs and candles, found space for them on the sideboard, and positioned the Dad photos to be part of the festivities. By this time, we don't even consider putting the pictures away. They're too precious!

Why do we have two menorot? The brass one on the right is what we bought when we got married. It was the best we could afford.  The green one on the left is the one I grew up with in my father's house. Many years after he passed away, when my mom finally sold the house, it was the one thing I chose to take. I cannot even express how strongly it brings back childhood memories, and how much it reminds me of my dad.

 As a child, I loved gazing at that green menorah from Israel, nearly as long as the candles burned.  The shape of it seems beautifully graceful to me, and iconic of 1950's Israel. The bottom is weighted to avoid tipping over.  The candle holders each have a lovely rounded bronze edge on the their tops, which for some reason pleases me enormously.









I'm not sure what will be my children's favorite memories of Hanukkah... maybe the cheap brass menorah? Or that crazy blue dreidel that spins endlessly.  But for me, it's the green menorah from Israel, my father, and as an adult, my father-in-law. Our dads have passed on, but they're still always with us.




                       

Gifts of Gold

I'm sitting in the Synagogue, and the Rabbi is talking about taking care of your God-given body, and I look down at mine. Not too far down, because... well, you know... that gets depressing.  But as I look, I notice something very interesting (to me at least).

I am adorned today with gifts of gold from many people who have loved me.  I didn't intend this, but every piece of jewelry was a gift from someone special.  Not one thing was made or purchased by me.  My earrings are from my mother, my bracelet is from her beloved aunt, my necklace an amazing story from my mother-in-law, on one hand my wedding ring from my husband (and indirectly a gift from my father), on the other hand my grandmother's wedding band.  Each piece is made of gold, and each has a distinct and memorable "story."

It's as if these loving family members have dressed me, and ushered me into the Days of Awe. It feels a little like a bride being dressed by her inner circle.  On Yom Kippur I will go it alone, with no jewelry at all, but today 3 generations of family members have surrounded me with love and memories and fortitude.

Yom Kippur Comes Full Circle

13 years ago, we moved to Portland just in time for the High Holy Days. On Yom Kippur, we sat in a strange temple where we knew nobody, amidst a sea of people in white clothing, and navigated our way through the very long, intense, somber process that is Yom Kippur. Then, all of a sudden, a small boy burst through the door, having escaped from child-care, ran to the young couple sitting in front of us, beaming from ear to ear, and shouted "Mommy, Daddy, my loose tooth came out!"

That moment lives in my memory as my best Yom Kippur experience ever. It was so real, so NOW, so life-affirming, so joyous. Just the break we needed, and also a motivation to love God even more.

Fast-forward to 2011. Life has come full-circle in the mystical period of 13 years, to present us with... death. And my worst Yom Kippur ever. Friday morning, just before Yom Kippur began, we buried the 26-year-old friend of my sons. Then, a few hours later, the Holy Day began, and we attempted to switch gears, to focus on asking God's forgiveness for our alleged sins. I couldn't do it. I am sucker-punched at the sudden death of a lovely young man I knew so well. I am so angry at God, or whoever/whatever controls these things. My head felt like it would explode. (And later, during the night, I thought it might do just that.)

In the morning, we had all sat in Stampfer Chapel for the funeral, dressed in black. All the young men, including my two sons, sat in the back, huddled together for support. They all looked so handsome in their suits, and so bewildered at this new and incomprehensible experience. And sitting throughout the rest of the chapel were a lot of people my age, crying their eyes out. These were the parents of Daniel's peers. The mothers who drove countless carpools, fed him, made sure he took his pills with applesauce, and the fathers who coached the childhood sports teams and drove the Maccabi team to PDX at 4 am, the pre-school and Hebrew school teachers who set him on the road to a love of Judaism. We had all cared for him as one of our own, felt a certain protectiveness over this sweet, diminutive child. Some of us had continued to know him as an adult, and were so very proud of his accomplishments. We all protected him when he was in our care... what happened?!?

In the evening, many of us were back in the same chapel, dressed in white for Yom Kippur. I couldn't stop crying. I really have a bone to pick with God. How could You? I tried, really tried, to focus on the text in the book. Tried to think about my past year, or the year ahead. But all I could think of was Daniel, and that plain casket, and his parents.

And I thought about that little boy 13 years ago. I wonder what he's up to now. He must be about 18 or 19 now. How was his Bar Mitzvah? Is he going on Birthright? Or is he pierced and tattooed? Is he still alive? Is he healthy? Did his teeth come in okay? Are his parents alive? I hope so. And I wish I could tell them.... hold onto him tight.