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Illustration by Catherine Chan
Although I am a Conservative Jew, the synagogue I belong to in Vancouver is Orthodox. Men sit separately from women. The 10 people who make up the quorum of adults required for certain prayers must be men. These and other restrictions do not fit my modern, progressive thinking as an independent woman. Like many Jews, I usually attended synagogue twice a year for the “High Holidays” – Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur.
But recently, I had buried my mother in a cemetery 4,000 kilometres away. She was my greatest supporter, we had a bond that now felt buried along with her. I’d replaced it with a steely coat of armour that belied my lonely, broken self.
In the first week after my mother’s death, I began reciting the “Mourners’ Kaddish,” a special prayer for the dead. The Kaddish is intended to honour the soul of the person and assist in its elevation to a higher state of being. It is normally said day and night for 30 days following burial. Except for children who lose a parent; in that case, it’s extended to 11 months.
I didn’t feel obligated to say Kaddish for 11 months, nor did I believe the longer I said it the better the chances my mom’s soul would be lifted skyward. She was already there if you asked me. But what I did feel was an aching, obsessive need to still have a mother and still be a daughter. And I wanted to keep thinking about her day and night, as if not doing so meant I was forgetting about her. Which is why I ended up at the synagogue door one evening trying to convince myself I could do the entire 11 months.
Once inside, an immediate sense of regret washed over me. I looked around at the group of mostly Orthodox Jewish men. I started to panic at the thought of wading through a year of bereavement with a group of religiously observant strangers. What was I doing here, in a room where no one knew me or my mother, knew nothing about the deep loss that I felt? I instantly disliked them for not running to my side and comforting me.
For the first several weeks, I kept my head down, spoke to no one and even occasionally rolled my eyes during discussions. I didn’t know the order of the prayers, I couldn’t follow the rabbi’s often complex sermons and, besides, it was always freezing in that basement room.
One night, an Israeli man whipped through the Kaddish verses at breakneck speed, I stuttered and stumbled to keep up. It was useless. I felt outdone, convinced that my voice didn’t matter, nor my intention to honour my deceased mother. I closed my prayer book and bolted from the room. I was never going back.
Later that night, I was stewing in my angry thoughts. My phone pinged. It was Joseph, one of the leaders at the synagogue.
“Nancy, I hope you’re planning on returning to synagogue. We can’t control the person who leads the service.”
I was gobsmacked. Was it possible my presence did matter?
I returned to the synagogue the next day. Something had shifted in me. I fist pumped with Joseph. I greeted people and made small chat. I saw an acquaintance who was mourning her own parent and asked for help finding the right page in the prayer book. She happily obliged and continued to do so whenever I was lost, which, to be honest, was quite often.
With some new-found self-assurance, I found myself looking forward to this daily routine. I relished the way the sun rose after early morning services and set precisely during certain prayers every evening. I started to listen to the rabbi’s sermons, fascinated by the myriad of interpretations, discussions, even arguments they elicited. The rabbi seemed genuinely anxious to hear my questions and opinions.
At the same time, I began to befriend other congregants. I offered people rides to and from services and began volunteering at synagogue events. I reached out to newcomers mourning the death of a loved one. By recognizing their raw pain, it allowed me to get past my own and help others. The more I gave, the more I began to feel a sense of purpose creep back into my daily life.
Eleven months later, on the evening of my last Kaddish service, I brought my husband and children with me to synagogue. I read the Kaddish one last time, an ending that felt entirely bittersweet. The rabbi acknowledged my family’s presence during his sermon and said he had never known my mother, but she must have been an incredible person for her child to be so devoted and respectful. He told my children I was a good role model. I felt my heart swell with pride. All along, without knowing it, I had given back in devotion and kindness what she and my father had spent a lifetime doing for me.
Sometimes, on bad days, when I feel especially alone and wanton of my mother, I return to that small chapel for comfort – it’s exactly where I want to be.
Nancy Putterman lives in Vancouver.