Yahrzeit

At the rising sun and at its going down; We remember them.

At the blowing of the wind and in the chill of winter; We remember them.

At the opening of the buds and in the rebirth of spring; We remember them.

At the blueness of the skies and in the warmth of summer; We remember them.

At the rustling of the leaves and in the beauty of the autumn; We remember them.

At the beginning of the year and when it ends; We remember them.

As long as we live, they too will live, for they are now a part of us as We remember them.

When we are weary and in need of strength; We remember them.

When we are lost and sick at heart; We remember them.

When we have decisions that are difficult to make; We remember them.

When we have joy we crave to share; We remember them.

When we have achievements that are based on theirs; We remember them.

For as long as we live, they too will live, for they are now a part of us as, We remember them.

“When will I be myself again?”

Some Tuesday, perhaps,

In the late afternoon,

Sitting quietly with a cup of tea

And a cookie;

Or Wednesday, same time or later,

You will stir from a nap and see her;

You will pick up the phone to call her;

You will hear her voice – unexpected advice –

And maybe argue.

And you will not be frightened,

And you will not be sad,

And you will not be alone,

Not alone at all,

And your tears will warm you.

But not today,

And not tomorrow,

And not tomorrow’s tomorrow,

But someday,

Some Tuesday, late in the afternoon,

Sitting quietly with a cup of tea

And a cookie

And you will be yourself again.

Shared by Bayit, Beside Still Waters 

The dining room table was simply resplendent. Covered in her now off-white lace table cloth, the oak wooden table stood sturdily atop the navy tuft pile carpet, though every year a few more shims were added for leveling. On the soft carpet, slight impressions from hundreds of chair legs left indented memories of the past. 

In the corners of the dining room, white built-in cabinets displayed China dishes with tiny blue and white flowers, wine glasses of every size, a shelf reserved entirely for Shabbat candlesticks, and a rudimentary  hanukkiah  made of wood and bolts, the sole survivor of Sunday school, now coated with wax.

The door was open to Elijah. At one end of the table sat his goblet full of wine, waiting for his visit, while across from it, Miriam’s cup stood in prominence. The children, who were now adults, still shot furtive glances at these cups. Would the wine disappear this year like it always had?

As in every year, there was too much food. He always cooked for twelve, even though now, there were only five or six people who might return to this table for Passover. 

In the foyer, a few table leaves leaned against a corner.

“Honey, we don’t need them this year,” he suggested to his wife.

“No. Let's put them in – just in case.” 

“But Mom,” their adult children echoed, “its just the six of us. And the leaves are really heavy. It's not worth breaking your back over.”

“No. No. Let's put them in – just in case.” 

And so they compromised. This year, one leaf would be used. The other would stand lonely in another room.

“And Mom, we don’t need extra chairs either.”

It’s in these moments, joyous holiday meals and family celebrations, that we remember them. It is in the smell of spices so fragrant, the taste of sweet wine, and the shadow of candles flickering, that we recall the days when they sat next to us and sometimes we can still feel their warmth. 

As we recall the story of the Jewish people, of our redemption from slavery in Egypt, we remember also the story of our own families: the journeys and experiences that shaped us, the people and places, and the faces that sat across from us, shared meals with us, shared the story with us – for so many years.

We can’t help but want to set a place for them at the table, hoping that they will walk in the door years after they’ve departed. We can’t help but want to hear their voices singing, laughing. We can’t help but want to smell their perfume, to taste their cooking, to see their smile.

While our memories are but meager substitutes for the warm hug we so long to experience, may we find solace and comfort in knowing that while they may be gone, our memories endure.

To the One who blessed our ancestors and the

One who blesses all beings here on this earth,

bless all those who are suffering the grief of someone they loved.

May they find solace in their memory,

and may their love find a resting place in their hearts.

Bless all those who are struggling with the death

of someone with whom they had a difficult relationship.

May they find compassion for themselves and renewal of spirit.

May they have patience and strength, as grief can come in waves throughout their lives.

May they find the courage to share their grief with others, no matter how many years have gone by.

While they can be shattered by loss, they can be healed by love from others.

Sacred One, help them find ways to open their hearts to love and hope.

Bless all those who are grieving, for it is an honor to have lived.

Make both life and death a blessing.

Amen.

A prayer by the Blue Dove Foundation

As we enter a New Year without our loved one, our memories of them and the experiences we shared with them may begin to feel further away. This activity invites us into presence with our memories and creates a physical keepsake we can revisit. You may want to begin collecting memories during Rosh Hashanah, and continue adding to the jar throughout the year. 

To start, place a large jar, decorated box or vessel in a convenient location. Next, whenever you have a memory of your loved one, write it down on a slip of paper and place it in the jar. If a memory crosses your mind and you don’t have access to paper, record a voice memo or type it into your phone so you can transfer it to paper later. Your memories can be simple, such as a holiday tradition, your loved one’s favorite food, or of an adventure or experience you shared. 

Any time you wish to recall their lives, take a note from the jar. You can also revisit memories at the start of another New Year, when you say Yizkor or Kaddish, each time you visit their grave, or mark their birthday or yahrzeit. You can create a scrapbook with photos that correspond to the memories. You can read the notes together with other family members or friends and then share the story of the memory together. Or, invite several people to share stories at your Rosh Hashanah seder, Yom Kippur break fast or Sukkot gathering. 

— 

This ritual was adapted by Chloe Nassau, based on a creation from the Center for Loss & Renewal, Rabbi Benyamin Cirlin, LCSW

To the One who blessed our ancestors and the

One who blesses all beings here on this earth,

bless all those who are suffering the grief of someone they loved.

May they find solace in their memory,

and may their love find a resting place in their hearts.

Bless all those who are struggling with the death

of someone with whom they had a difficult relationship.

May they find compassion for themselves and renewal of spirit.

May they have patience and strength, as grief can come in waves throughout their lives.

May they find the courage to share their grief with others, no matter how many years have gone by.

While they can be shattered by loss, they can be healed by love from others.

Sacred One, help them find ways to open their hearts to love and hope.

Bless all those who are grieving, for it is an honor to have lived.

Make both life and death a blessing.

Amen.

A prayer by the Blue Dove Foundation