I grew up ignorant of the structure my religion offers mourners. Singing in temple choirs and attending Shabbat services gave me my first lessons about Jewish remembrance. I noticed the people who stood to hear the names of those they had lost – spouses, mothers, fathers, brothers, and sisters. Today, I am no longer so ignorant of my faith’s rituals. But, I confess, it’s not always easy to stop life and remember. Continue reading
June 6, 2011
Death. We talked about death. We read about death. We wrote about death. We cried about death.
Illness, addiction, disability. We learned to poke fun at our own weaknesses. We learned to treat others’ illnesses, addictions, and disabilities with respect and love. We laughed. Again, we wiped tears from our eyes.
His auburn hair turned reddish-blond. His teeth gleamed white in a face that tanned to bronze. My late brother Kevin was the eternal boy of summer.
He was born in early August. Maybe his love for everything summer was a birthright.
To my brother, a slalom skier and ski jumper, every lake was a body of water to master.
He was gone, just gone. This was my belief after my brother Kevin died in a car accident in 1986. He was 23, and I was 21. All that remained were the memories of a fun-loving, caring brother with an impish streak.
I sensed my brother’s presence by my side at times during those first years after his death. But I did not think he was in some new, better world. Jews, I was sure then, do not believe in heaven. Right? The answer, I am learning, is complex.
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