On March 5, I turned 40. On March 9, I started rabbinical school. On April 1, I’ll be hosting a Pesach seder with friends to celebrate Passover. On April 12, my mom’s third yahrtzeit starts. It’s a busy month with so much joy and some sadness. I think it makes a lot of sense why these events are bound up together and I’ll explain why.
Let’s start from the end. My mom’s third yahrtzeit will be this April. When my mom passed away from cancer, it came five months after my step-father died from cancer too. I wasn’t just extremely sad – I also felt like my Judaism had been annihilated. From a young age, I’ve been not only deeply passionate about my Judaism, I’ve been a leader in my communities. I’ve been a teen prayer leader, a youth group board member, a founder of the Reform community on my college campus, a service leader in Tel Aviv. To go from helping others on their spiritual journeys to someone who was openly pondering atheism or agnosticism was a radical shift for me. And a scary one. I felt rootless at a time when I desperately needed community, love, and spirituality.
When my mom passed away, I could barely utter the words of Kaddish, the traditional Jewish mourning prayer which praises God’s greatness. I even asked one of my rabbis if we could use an atheistic/humanistic version for the funeral which omitted God’s name. She said she wouldn’t do that and so I forced myself through the tears to fulfill my promise to my mom to say Kaddish for her as much as I hated every bit of the prayer at the time.
During that period of time in my life, a lot of friends stepped up for me and helped me through the darkness. They helped clean out my childhood house, they helped bring me meals, they came to funerals and shiva, they hugged me, and they provided a kind ear to listen as I grieved. I am incredibly grateful to them, my chosen family.
So what does this have to do with my birthday? Well, first things first – I had one of my best birthdays ever this year. Some people dread turning 20, 30, 40, 50, etc. Those big years with a zero at the end. For me, this year felt just right, rounding out my previous decade. While of course I wished I could have celebrated with my mom and step-dad, I had the privilege of bringing together some of my closest friends for a birthday to remember in Savannah, Georgia. This amazing group of humans is pictured in my cover photo. These people have been with me through thick and thin and I’m not only incredibly grateful for their friendship, they are also a great time!
When my mom was near the end of her life, she told me relationships are all that matter. And she was right. Over the years, I’ve met some incredible people who make me laugh, smile, and feel supported. I took her lesson to heart and have built a strong sense of community. It is one of the ways in which God has turned my mourning into dancing, as the psalmist says.
“You turned my mourning into dancing; You loosened my sackcloth and girded me with joy”. That’s specifically what it says in the psalm. And recently, I’ve felt extra joyous. I started rabbinical school recently, a dream of mine since I was a young child. I can still remember telling Cantor Roemer in first grade that I loved the song “hashiveinu” and walking with her to her office to get a copy of the lyrics. The tune was beautiful and the lyrics are poignant for where I’m at in life right now: “Turn us back, turn us back, O LORD to You and we will turn, and we will turn renew, renew our days as before.”
That’s how I feel. Rabbinical school is a new start, but it is a return to my authentic self. Just like the words from Lamentations above. When my mom passed, my childhood rabbi told me my faith was not weak, it was being tested. And if that’s the case, I’d say my decision to reengage in Jewish life is active proof that I have passed this test. I’m sure my faith will continue to be tested throughout life, but if I can manage to go from being nearly unable to utter Kaddish three years ago to studying to become a rabbi, I’m processing grief in a healthy way.
So if my birthday was about relationships and rabbinical school is about a return to self, what are my hopes for Passover and why is it bound up in this series of events, including my mom’s yahrtzeit?
For those who don’t know, my religious Hebrew name is Pesach, Hebrew for “Passover”. I was named after my great-grandmother Polly. It’s a unique name, but one that I feel suits me. Pesach is a holiday not only about the national liberation of the Jewish people, it is also about personal liberation. We are commanded to envision each of ourselves as having been freed from slavery in Egypt.
This Passover, I am liberated from the feeling that my grief over my parents has to only be about sadness. It might sound strange. After all, I am sad that I’m not leading a Seder with them, singing Chad Gadya together and eating all their delicious food. And I of course find myself feeling sad that they’re not here to see me start rabbinical school or celebrating my 40th birthday with friends.
And I’m also giving myself permission to feel happiness. Part of grieving is allowing yourself to add new memories to the old. And to integrate the two in a meaningful way.
So to that end, I’m thrilled to start 40 by beginning rabbinical school and finding ways to serve my community. I’m excited to start what I hope will be one of the best decades of my life surrounded by so much love. I’m thrilled to be hosting a Pesach seder with friends. I’m proud to be prioritizing my relationships above all else.
Being a rabbi will not just be about the classes I’ve taken, it’ll also be about the life experiences I’ve had and will yet have. If the past few years has been a test of faith, as my rabbi said, then I have passed the test. While we’re never truly “out on the other side” of loss, I feel I’m well on my way to integrating my trauma into my understanding of self and am very proud of the work I’ve done to get here. It’ll make me a better rabbi for having been through it.
Wishing you all nothing but love and strength with whatever tests your faith may face in the days and years ahead. Because my story is proof that you can make it through too. May your resilience surprise you.
Planting Roots Bearing Fruits 