We have a Yom Kippur tradition in our family. Call it family custom, call it superstition, but we do not attend Yizkor service until we’ve lost someone close to us. Growing up, this is how we observed Yom Kippur: My family always had dinner together before Kol Nidre services to mark the start of our fast, then we attended morning services on the day of Yom Kippur. At first it was my parents, brother, and myself, until my brother and I married our spouses. After that, our family grew by leaps and bounds. Now, we take up a whole row in our synagogue. After services, we always went home and reflected on our year, asking for and granting forgiveness to each other. Sometimes we went to a park or walked to the small lake in our neighborhood to cast breadcrumbs into the water. I have carried these traditions from my childhood home to my own home with my children. Before breaking the fast, my parents always attended Yizkor service to honor their loved ones while the rest of us stayed home to set up our end-of-fast meal. In fifty years, I have never been in my synagogue in the afternoon on Yom Kippur.
This past year, however, was different.
This past year, I attended my first Yizkor service.
Stepping back into temple in the afternoon with my mother and brother, just the three of us, the environment had changed. The lobby was quiet. The morning crowds had thinned out and most people kept to themselves. The energy was solemn. Even the quality of light was different, more mellow, subdued, somehow befitting the atmosphere.
I didn’t know what to expect as I was handed my “In Memoriam” book and took a seat between my mother and brother. Before our rabbi stepped to the bimah to begin the service, I flipped though the pamphlet, immediately looking for the reason why I was there. I began to seek out my father’s name. There it was, listed under the names of those who had passed this year. Seeing his name in print, Larry Werthaiser, sent a pang through my heart. The rest of the book was filled with the names of those who had died over the years, remembered by those who loved them. My mother leaned over and showed me the page dedicated to our family. My father and aunt were listed along with both my maternal and paternal grandparents. The pang in my heart became a vice. It hurt to see their names, especially since we had lost four of the six people listed in such a short period of time.
During the service, there were multiple moments of silence while our rabbi lit the candles of remembrance. In those moments, I closed my eyes and allowed memories of my father and my aunt and my grandmothers to fill the mind. I felt the weight of the past few weeks, which had been an emotional time for our family. We had recently celebrated my youngest nephew’s Bar Mitzvah, an occasion that should have been filled with joy and happiness. Infringing on that joy were moments when I felt my father’s absence so strongly, like the morning before the service when we were gathered for family photos, or when the Torah was passed down from generation to generation. For my daughters’ Bat Mitzvahs, my father had been standing there next to my mother, embracing the Torah before handing it down to me. Now, my mom stood there alone. I realized my father would not be there to one day see my own daughters walk down the aisle at their weddings or see the birth of his great-grandchildren. Grief, something I wasn’t expecting to feel during such a happy moment, washed over me as I watched, and I began to cry silently, hoping no one would see.
I also remembered all the mornings I sat next to my father during high holiday services. He was a rock in our family, and his presence was something I always took comfort in, especially in spiritual moments. I loved hearing his voice as the congregation recited the prayers. I loved feeling his nearness as he occasionally put his arm around me. I loved how he brought a book on Jewish philosophy with him to read during moments when most congregants might daydream, his finger to his lips, his foot silently tapping as he pondered the page. I always admired his intelligence and his perpetual interest in pursuing education and personal growth.
When his name was recited in the Yizkor service, my mother, brother and I all held hands, remembering him, missing him in a way I can’t put into words. As beautiful music filled the space and the cantor began to sing, I remembered a line from the morning prayer: “And so a great shofar will cry — t’kiah. A still small voice will be heard.” The memories that came to me in those moments felt like a still small voice, perhaps my father’s, reminding me how precious life is and how blessed I was to have these memories.
This Friday, we will go to synagogue for my father’s first yahrzeit. We will light a candle and reflect on the fact that it’s been a year since he passed. Those heartbreaking memories of his last days have been replaced by memories of better times, of all the laughter and love we’ve shared. A lifetime of laughter and love. In Judaism, the year anniversary marks the end of mourning for children who have lost a parent. In my heart, though, I will always mourn the loss of my father. I will always miss him. But I do feel like he’s still with me. I feel it in the quiet moments when I’m outside with my eyes closed and feel a soft breeze on my face. I feel it in the morning after waking from a dream about my dad, where he and I were talking like old times. I feel it in the little signs that make me pause and sense his presence. It’s those moments that whisper to me like a still small voice that he is still here, and he will always be by my side.
