בס׳ד
Remembering is a large part of what it means to be a Jew.
There’s nothing very novel about this statement. This is not something that I just realized or became aware of. But lately it has become very clear to me just how much time, energy, and expense so many of us put into memorializing loved ones and friends who are no longer with us.
This is especially true when it comes to tragic losses. Tragedies occur everywhere, but certainly, here in Israel, we have more than our share of tragic loss.
Just this month, I have seen announcements and reminders for memorial events - azkarot in Hebrew - for young people lost through accidents, terror attacks, and acts of heroism. People organize and attend to these gatherings year after year.
I receive facebook posts, emails, essays that memorialize and extol loved ones, and mourn their loss and the empty place that their departure has left behind, that can never again be truly filled.
Comforting is also a part of what it means to be part of a Jewish community.
The one who mourns gives each of us the opportunity to be one who comforts. We join them in their mourning, so that they should not mourn alone. People travel to practically anywhere in Israel to go to the shiva house of an individual or family that is mourning the loss of a loved one through terror and murder. Complete strangers, but brethren nevertheless. I have done so myself.
We bond together through our common suffering, and consolation. We also bond with each other through our celebrations of life in births, marriages, and our various rites of passage.
My father, A”H, used to go out of his way to attend every simcha he could. And I mean “out of his way”. For 10 years of his life, my parents lived in the Virgin Islands. But you could be sure if there was a simcha in New York, or Chicago, or Florida, my Dad and Mom would be there.
As for me, I remember once that there was a family simcha that I just felt it wasn’t truly necessary for me to go to. In speaking with an acquaintance, she made the point that if, Gd forbid, it was something other than a simcha, would I think twice about not going?
So why is it that times of mourning, or remembrance, seem to be more compelling to us than times of celebration? Why are we more likely to skip a bris milah than, Gd forbid, the shiva house of one who has lost a child?
One thing I hear a great deal, are regrets for not having taken the opportunity to spend more time with someone. We have all too many demands on our limited time. It’s understandable. But it also contributes to our regret when this is no longer possible.
How can we avoid this trap? How can we put as much emphasis on spending normal time with family and friends, as we would on accompanying them to the chupa - or, chas v’shalom, to the kever?
Here is my suggestion: estimate the number of hours you took to prepare for, travel to, attend, and return home from every event of this nature in the past year. Then commit to spend at least that amount of time this year just being with the people to whose mourners you would travel to comfort. Or whose simchas you would most certainly attend.
That, in my opinion, is the time that matters the most.
Or is it just me?
