Zichronam L’vrachah. May the memory of those we have loved and who have touched our lives be a blessing. This is what we say when we remember those who have departed this earth. But what wisdom does our tradition share about those who have made our lives a blessing but are simply no longer close by?
I just moved from Brunswick, GA to Charlotte, NC. A month ago. It’s still fresh. The boxes that are not yet unpacked still have the possibility of being unloaded and not ending up in the garage. It is a time of hope and optimism, but also uncertainty.
Jewishly, when we lose those we love because they have died, we have rituals for mourning which help us process our grief and move forward. While for me this time of transition as I have moved homes has sometimes had painful challenges, I have learned some lessons along the way about this kind of loss—loss of community, friendships, and home—and I’ve turned to Jewish tradition to help me shape my experience.
Love endures
Leaving my community in Georgia was incredibly difficult. Some aspect of my sadness over leaving was steeped in the fear that when I was gone, no one would remember I had been there. When I posted on Facebook about the move, I received a deluge of beautiful messages. I also received three connections with three people from three different eras in my life: a friend from my first job out of Rabbinic school, my first supervisor when I was a youth educator outside of Boston decades ago, and, of all things, my first serious boyfriend from when I was sixteen. It was a stunning reminder that even as we come and go, the love we have for one another endures. Our love can stretch across time and distance without severing. And this fills me with comfort: gone doesn’t mean forgotten, and this is, after all, so much of what we fear when we depart.
You cannot take it with you
And yet, as much as gone does not mean forgotten, we still leave something behind. Last year at Hanukkah, a dear friend gave me a photograph of us as a present. When I started packing, this photo got me thinking about whose pictures I wanted to see on my desk in my new life—who my photo friends are. I gathered together some of these photo friends for dinner. I made sure we took a picture together and I gave a copy to each of them. That image now lives on my desk. When we all stood together to take the picture of the moment, I realized that the image was not at all what I wanted; I wanted to stop that moment in time and stay there, to take everyone and everything I love with me.
But I could not. Here is memory’s power. We create memories to hold on to something sacred that dwells between us. It is why doing special things together matters, because it puts a memory stamp in our brains that we keep even beyond the moments themselves.
It is true what they say, that you cannot take it with you. But we try. And memory is the bridge between holding on and letting go.
Endings make it meaningful
In the last few weeks of living in Georgia, my daughter and I watched The Good Place. The show’s premise is about Heaven—the Good Place, and Hell—The Bad Place, who gets to go to which one, and how we can find our way into the Good Place or the Bad Place. Along the way, we learn a few things from the six main characters as they work to get into The Good Place. First, that being kind to and responsible for others matters. Second, that wherever we go, we’re going together. And the third lesson, which hit me hard: Knowing that things will end is what makes them matter.
In the last season, our heroes have made it to the Good Place, only to find that everyone there is miserable. Turns out an infinity of bliss is boring. The team brainstorms and realizes, as the main character played by Kristen Bell explains, “Every human is a little bit sad all the time, because you know you’re going to die, but that knowledge is what gives life meaning.” The people of The Good Place have meaning restored to their lives only once they know they are allowed to leave.
As I watched this scene, I was deeply moved. I took this wisdom to heart. My feelings of longing for my life in Georgia came into sharp relief with the knowledge that I would not, in fact, get to stay forever.
Giving Life to the Living
When we see someone we have not encountered for a long time, we say this blessing: Baruch atah Adonai michayei hameitim. Blessed are you, Adonai, who gives life to the dead. This is a blessing from the Amidah, the main personal prayer of our services, where it serves to remind us of God’s power of bringing the dead back to life. Placing these words in our mouths in the moment of reunion with distant loved ones who are no longer distant teaches us that being apart is a little bit like dying. But it also tells us that in our reunions, love, connection, and belonging will reawaken. And that power to stay connected over time and space or to reconnect when ties are loosened is ours.
Perhaps the beauty of moments of transition like the one I am in now is the reminder to live our lives fully. To be mindful about growing strong bonds with one another and to trust in them, especially in times of change. To live lives full of moments worthy of remembering, to keep the mental storehouse of memories constantly replenished and even overflowing. To know that while death is the ultimate ending, the many endings along the way inspire us to appreciate, value, and hold close what is precious and dear right now. And that the power to revitalize what is dormant is within each of us at all times. Even right now.