Merle Barbara Weiner Wekstein z"l

Today is the 4th anniversary on the Hebrew calendar of my Mom's death. After Mom died, a close friend, whose own mother had died when she was young, told me that, in some way, I would think about Mom every day. My friend was right. I do think about Mom every single day, sometimes more than once. Sometimes my thoughts are happy memories, like picturing Mom on her couch needle pointing or at a great Chinese restaurant in Honolulu with Dad, my brother and me. Other times, I remember something sad, like when Mom first got sick and couldn't hold the then 3-month old WK.  Many times, though, when I think about Mom, it's because something in my life is happening, and I am all too aware that Mom isn't here to share it with me. Like when the CK read for the first time; G-d, Mom would have loved that.

When Mom died, the WK was 6 1/2 years old and the CK was not yet 3 1/2. The WK says he remembers Nana (what Mom's grandchildren called her), and I'm sure he does have some memories of her, and maybe the CK remembers something, too. My guess, though, is that most of what my boys remember about their Nana is from the stories we've told about her, and we've told those stories enough times that they feel like memories to the boys.

When the WK was around 4 years old, we went to Kentucky to visit my parents. The WK asked Nana if they could make brownies together. Mom said it was okay, and the two of them prepared the materials (the Duncan Hines brownie mix, a couple of eggs and some oil). Apparently, when Mom was mixing the batter, some of it splashed out of the mixing bowl and onto the counter. Since that day, one of the WK's strongest memory of his Nana is that she "made messy brownies." Because I like to bake, the story really does get told a lot, and I love that the boys like to hear the story again and again.

If you've been following this blog, you know that the last few weeks haven't been easy for us in Jerusalem. The boys' adjustment has been much rockier than we would have hoped and it's been difficult all around. So anyway, last night after sundown, I lit the yahrzeit candle ("ner neshama" or "soul candle" in Hebrew) for Mom.(http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Yahrzeit_candle) There isn't really a special blessing that must be said when the candle is lit, and it always feels weird to me to light the candle and then walk away without saying anything. Because yesterday the boys had been especially difficult, after I lit the yarzheit candle, I felt a bit overwhelmed and started to cry. I went to the other room by myself.

After a few minutes, I was ready to come back to the kitchen, but Pentheus and the boys told me I couldn't go in quite yet. A bit later, the boys came in the other room and gave me this:

The boys started to explain the picture they had drawn, but, of course, it needed no explanation, as it could only have been Nana's messy brownies. It was very sweet of the boys and I let them know how much I appreciated it.

In the big picture, so far, I've observed Mom's yahrzeit in a similar manner as I would if we were in the States. I lit the candle last night and after walking the boys to school, Pentheus, and I walked to Shir Chadash, so that I could say Kaddish, the Jewish memorial prayer, for my Mom. (http://www.myjewishlearning.com/life/Life_Events/Death_and_Mourning/Burial_and_Mourning/Kaddish.shtml)

At Shir Chadash, the morning service is held in the sanctuary of the building where Shir Chadash meets, instead of upstairs in the building. (The building actually belongs to another congregation, and Shir Chadash typically can't use the sanctuary on Shabbat.). I hadn't been in the sanctuary before. It is beautiful. There are numerous intricate stained glass windows and the "bima" with the ark holding the Torah scrolls is gorgeous. The mecheetzah (separating the men and the women during prayer) in the sanctuary isn't really even a mecheetzah: at the back of the sanctuary, there is a study room of sorts with a few tables and chairs and some library shelves. I kind of stood in the opening between the sanctuary and the study room. I was the only woman at the minyan. There were probably around 50 men.

I had mentioned to a few of the men that I was at minyan to say Kaddish for my Mom. Alan Lurie (the man at whose home our family had eaten lunch on the second day of Rosh Hashanah - the one with a couple of dogs that gave the CK hives) and another man came over to me a few times during the service to make sure I knew where we were. I am very familiar with the service and could follow along, but it was kind of them to check. Pentheus also came over once or twice to make sure I was okay.

In the morning service, there are parts where the man leading the davening (praying) prays aloud, parts where the leader and congregation pray together, and parts where the congregation prays silently. For the kaddish, however, only the leader and anyone observing a yahrzeit chant the majority of the kaddish prayer, although there are several lines which the entire congregation chants as well. When the rest of the congregation joins in for those few lines, it reminds the mourner that s/he is not alone, that the community is with the mourner to help soften the blow, as it were. There I was in a synagogue in Jerusalem, standing alone in the entrance to the study room (not even in the sanctuary), saying kaddish for Mom, crying softly as I prayed. Every time it seemed too much to take, I heard the other voices of the congregation join me. It's almost impossible to explain the comfort those other voices provided.

After the minyan had finished, a couple of men came over to say hello. I thanked Alan, Aaron and Pentheus for making sure I was okay during the service. When the Rabbi and I were talking, he asked me Mom's name, and, for some reason, that was very powerful to me. The Rabbi didn't need to know her name, he wasn't going to need to announce it to the congregation or put notification of her yarzheit in the weekly email to the congregation. He asked me her name because he knew I was at services this morning to honor her memory. I hope that I can continue to honor Mom's memory and may her memory be for a blessing.

Unless you have known me and my siblings for a long time, the next story might not mean much, but to those of you who know why I am including this story, I promise it honestly happened. After Pentheus and I came home from synagogue, I offered to make coffee for the two of us. I scooped the heaping teaspoon of instant decaf into our mugs and waited for the water to boil. When I went to add milk to my decaf, I took the lid off and smelled the milk, as I do every single time. The milk smelled off to me. I asked Pentheus to smell it, but he thought it was okay. (Pentheus knows better than to say that the milk is "fine.") I poured out the entire half gallon, went to the "makolet" (small grocery store) down the street, and bought new milk.