Grieving for Friends

What follows is my meditation from the Yom Kippur Yizkor memorial service and the lessons I am learning from grieving for my friend Todd.

The Jewish tradition obligates us to mourn for these relations: parent, spouse, sibling and child. It demands that we recite Kaddish when we lose our mother or father, husband or wife, sister or brother, son or daughter. This is not a statement about how one feels. Whether we talk to our parent every day, or the relationship is fraught with tension Judaism says, “Mourn. Recite Kaddish.”

Obligation is the path our tradition offers us through the valley of the shadow of death. It is as if to say, when you feel lost, when you don’t know what else to do, hold on to these well-worn rungs to lift you forward. This sentiment is so strongly felt that some refuse to attend this Yizkor service if they are not obligated to mourn.

In January, I lost my friend. His death at the age of fifty-two remains a shock with which I still struggle. Todd and I shared many hours together, riding our bikes, running the trails or swimming in the sound. And so, when he died, I discovered that I did not know what to do. The mitzvah was gone. The road that I had offered others, the path that I explained to so many as offering a ladder to which to hold, was absent. I have spent the better part of these months contemplating the gap between these overwhelming and bewildering feelings of loss and the succinct and clear obligation to mourn. I grieve, but the path belongs to others.

I know many have lost loved ones this past year. I have seen your grief. I know as well that many have likewise lost friends. I have seen your tears at these funerals. I have seen you cry, and your nods, when the obligated child stands to mourn the parent who is the friend with whom you shared so many occasions. I have witnessed you struggle to hold the mourners in your arms even though your tears burn your cheeks. The tradition does not command us, “Say Kaddish.” Of course, we can. Of course, we can choose to obligate ourselves. I do not make much of the superstitions that suggest otherwise.

And yet I am left wondering. What if the obligation offers rescue? What if that path of commandment and observance offers at least guideposts along this long, tortured journey. They do not heal the pain. They do not explain the loss. They offer instructions when it is so unclear what to do.

Judaism organizes our lives around obligation. My heart is wrapped up in feelings.

And yet I know of no way forward but the prescribed path. I understand no journey without lengthy to do lists. “Leave a stone. Say Kaddish.” The heart will be assuaged. The hurt continues. At least now the hand and the mouth have their instructions. And they might serve as a balm to the grieving heart.

Say Kaddish. Leave a stone.