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The Gift of Memory
Spring is a time when I am flooded with memories of those people who have touched me in very special ways.
Perhaps it is somewhat ironic that three of them, in particular, would have celebrated birthdays during this season of renewed life. They are no longer physically here with me, but their presence in my life only seems to grow stronger.
I have noticed in the course of many (many, many) years of schooling that I continue to learn from my best teachers long after the class has ended. The lessons they taught me triggered a process of growth which I continue to tap into year after year. The three people I honor at this time of year were perhaps my three greatest teachers, because they taught me more about myself than I could ever have learned on my own. They were simultaneously challenging and affirming. They forced me to delve into uncomfortable areas of my being, all the time demonstrating their love and devotion to whatever person I would become.
One was a peer, and two were small children. The lessons I learn from children are particularly wonderful because their teachings are direct and immediate, yet without judgment. I always know where I stand with them. The two, who were patients during my hospital chaplaincy training, always gave me “feedback” in a firm but loving manner.
The other was my best friend in high school and college. She and I grew from adolescence to adulthood together, sharing many struggles and victories for more than 18 years. She embodied the concept of unconditional love. She stood by all those she cared about almost to a fault, and was convinced that we could accomplish anything in our lives we set our minds and our hearts to.
I miss them. Sometimes I have this great desire just to be able to share a small part of my day with them. After their deaths, there was a terrible void in my heart. I thought of them often and with sadness. I could not shake the sense of aloneness I felt -- that emptiness in the pit of my stomach. Each time I stood at a service to say Kaddish, I was reminded of the bonds which were now broken.
And then one day -- and this has happened with each of them -- I was thinking about them and, to my surprise, found myself smiling. And in my surprise I realized that those I loved were not gone, but rather had found a place of renewed life in my heart. Although I can no longer reach out and touch them, I can reach inward and embrace them. And in difficult moments, I reach inside and allow them to embrace me.
Perhaps this is the healing power of Kaddish. Despite the pain of our loss, we stand day after day to praise God. Our tradition insists that we give thanks for the gift of a life now physically removed from us. I don’t remember feeling particularly thankful during those early weeks and months. But nonetheless, I stood, surrounded by my community, and recited the ancient words - - sometimes in anger, sometimes through tears. Over time, I came to appreciate and, yes, even become thankful for the gift of memory I had been given. I began to nurture that memory, and it in turn nurtured me.
I am especially drawn to the teaching that tells us that we best honor the memory of those we loved when we use the gifts they gave to us in the service of others. When I touch the life of someone new in a significant way, I keep alive the gifts I was given. I rejoice in the knowledge that my good act is their eternity. As those gifts are passed from person to person, and from generation to generation, I take comfort knowing that the memory of my loved ones will, indeed, always be for blessing. As we declare that the Name of the Eternal One be magnified and sanctified throughout creation, so too may our gifts of memory be magnified and sanctified through our words and our deeds throughout the world. And let us say: Amen.
B’shalom,
Andrew Bernard
Cantor
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