Grief Transcends Expectation
It is a strange and curious thing that every time I water my house plants, I think of my friend and colleague Rabbi Aaron Panken who died nearly seven years ago. We last saw each other the prior Spring at our sons’ graduations from Northwestern. Aaron and I were classmates in rabbinical school, and we shared many conversations throughout the years, especially after we both found ourselves working in Manhattan immediately after becoming rabbis.
Years later our sons became close friends during their many summers attending Eisner Camp. Every time Aaron and I bumped into each other, often during those Berkshires summers, we would reignite debates from prior years and relish in the bonds that sustained Eli and Ari’s friendship.
Ours was not the tight friendship our sons shared, but we were always happy to see each other. We would then inevitably promise each other that we should find future opportunities to rekindle the bond from earlier years. Now that our sons are so close, we would say, we too should figure out how we can spend more time together.
Tragedy robbed us of those opportunities. It robbed us of a great mind and an unparalleled thinker. It robbed his family of a father, husband, brother and son and so many of a friend.
I often find myself wondering how Aaron would respond to the few students our alma mater is ordaining as rabbis and cantors. Or what he would he say about Israel’s harsh military campaign in Gaza. Or how he would respond to the Trump administration’s attacks against academia. He would no doubt remind me how the celebrated Maccabees quickly became corrupt rulers (Aaron loved Hanukkah’s lessons!) or offer a pearl of wisdom from the Talmud to help elucidate the current situation (he had a PhD in Rabbinic literature).
It remains a mystery why I think about all this when I water the plants. As I lean over my many house plants to trim their dead leaves and add water to their roots I think of Aaron. Nearly once a week this friendship comes to mind. I have no earthly idea why this is so.
Grief follows a strange, and convoluted, path. It defies reason. It transcends expectation. Although given how it accompanies my weekly ritual, I have come welcome it and the memories it summons.
Perhaps this is why the rabbis add the Yizkor memorial prayers to the conclusion of Passover. We cannot help but think of those who are now absent from our seder tables. We remember them sitting by our sides in past years. We retell their words. We even recall their antics.
Memories leap to the fore.
We have no choice but to welcome them.
We water our memories.
May we come to find that their roots nurture us.