Kaddish

My life these days is dominated by Kaddish. I think about it constantly, I even dream about it. My schedule completely revolves around going to minyan three times a day, on time, in order to say it. My brother and I are resolved never to miss a single Kaddish over the next eleven months; we figure it's the least we can do to honor our father. We also find it profoundly comforting. I'm not sure why.

I have been trying to work out exactly what Kaddish means. I don't mean literally. I know what the words mean. But why does saying it make me feel the way it makes me feel?

I recently started corresponding with Robert Avrech, first about his wonderful new book, The Hebrew Kid and the Apache Maiden, and then about a whole range of topics. He and his wife are amazing people. Scanning his blog (every post of which I have already read) I came across this heartbreaking post about his last kaddish for his son Ariel:

The Last Kaddish

The Kaddish has been called an echo of the Book of Job. Job said: "Though He slay me, yet will I trust in him." The Kaddish is an expression of faith on the part of the mourner that although he is grief-stricken, he still believes in God, still trusts in the meaning of life. It is the ultimate anti-existentialist statement. Karen and I will mourn forever. We are riven as day follows night. Our son will always be dead, and a central portion of our lives died with him.

This Shabbos I recite the last Kaddish of the eleven months for Ariel.
I stand in shul, eyes closed, swaying back and forth, chanting the words with (I hope) perfect diction and true feeling. I want the b'racha to go on forever. I want to stretch the words like a giant rubber band and make them reach from earth to heaven. There are at least another dozen mourners in shul, all with much louder voices than mine, but I hear only one sound. Is this my voice? I see Ariel as he used to be: sitting in shul beside me. Is this my voice? I study the delicate architecture of his face. I melt as Ariel's lips move, savoring each syllable, whispering the sacred Hebrew text. Is this me? I study his long tapering fingers as they turn the pages of the siddur. I lean over and bury my lips in the plush groove of his neck. It is my voice. I am close to the end. It is my son. I take three steps back and three steps forward. I finish the Kaddish. I open my eyes and I see a dozen men in shul gazing at me. Some have tears in their eyes. Several nod, tacitly acknowledging the finality of the moment. I open my eyes and I see light. I open my eyes and I am swimming through layers of memory. I open my eyes and I see splendor. I open my eyes and I see my son, my son, Ariel.

I cannot compare the unfathomable loss of a child to the loss of a parent who lived a full and happy life. Nevertheless, I am indebted to Robert Avrech for his deep insight.

May Hashem give Karen and Robert strength and comfort.