I have a black and white photo of my Jewish great grandmother Sara in my office. It’s a professional photograph taken of her and her four children in Kharkov, Russia sometime around 1914 or 1915. I know because she’s holding a little girl, a toddler, and that’s my grandmother Faye. In the photo, Sara is somber, not smiling, certainly not joyous. She’s wearing all black. My guess is that she took this photo to send to her husband Max in America, who got her pregnant with their fourth child (my grandmother) right before leaving to pave the way for a better life for them all. “See us, remember us,” the photo says without speaking.
In the photo Sara’s eyes are gloomy – they droop slightly at the edges – they look like wells of sadness. I often look at her face and see myself.
The Jewish High Holidays happened in early September this year. Given the pandemic my family participated in Rosh Hashanah services virtually for the second year in a row. My husband, Keith, is the shofar blower for our synagogue and this year he used my office as the place to blow his shofar due to my desktop computer and zoom account. From her spot in my office, my great grandmother Sara “watched” the entire thing. I wonder what she thought seeing her great son-in-law: Proud? Astonished? Comforted?
The other day when I was meditating, an image of my grandmother Faye came to me along with the phrase, “think of me every day.” It made me sad to realize that I don’t allow myself to think about my grandmother every day due to the circumstances under which she died, namely alone – being transported from the hospital to hospice. The image of her being on a gurney or stretcher and being with one or two orderlies who didn’t know her and dying in an ambulance or hallway are too sad for me. Yet, her message was clear: “think of me every day.”
On Yom Kippur I decided to attend services in person, having received a ticket to be part of the 25% capacity, fully masked experience. I sat in the second row alone, not surrounded shoulder-to-shoulder like in years past. At one point in the service a congregant approached me and asked if I’d be willing to hold the Torah during Yizkor. I was not immediately familiar with that part of the service, but readily agreed to the honor. “Sara was supposed to do it, but I don’t see her,” he explained, wanting to let me know why he needed a last-minute replacement. As Yizkor began, I was called to join the Rabbi and handed the ancient Torah scroll. As the Rabbi began speaking, I understood that this was the part of the service (done only four times a year) where we remember those who have passed on. Yizkor, in Hebrew, means “remember.” We recite the prayer to strengthen our connection to our departed loved ones, helping to elevate their celestial souls.
When the prayer was over, the Rabbi turned toward me to receive the Torah. I carefully placed it in her arms and returned to my seat. Only then did I fully appreciate the significance of “Sara” not being there and me having to stand in for “Sara,” my great grandmother’s name. I was overtaken by the beauty of that moment, overcome with a true sense of the divine.
Yizkor, remember, remember my grandmother every day. Yizkor, I stand in the place of Sara-with-the-sad-eyes.
I am my ancestors’ wildest dream, and I was sent up there to Yizkor, to remember that.
In my heart, I now see Sara smiling, her eyes aglow as she watched me holding the Torah on Yom Kippur, the holiest day of the Jewish year.
Holy Speak
