Saying kaddish this week has been fairly routine; my regular shachris minyan; mincha at 1:45 pm at the Agudah office and maariv at 10 pm at the Yeshiva. That does not mean that I am not stressing about saying kaddish. Quite to the contrary, I am planning my travel for the next two weeks and flight schedules, meeting times and minyanim do not easily fit together.

Next week I will be in Columbus on Tuesday, New York on Thursday and the following week I will be in San Francisco for a few days. Add to that that we move the clock back an hour next Saturday night. This means that mincha maariv will be late afternoon/early evening. Making it all work will not be simple. I am already looking at extra travel days and alternative flight schedules. Even then I am not sure that I can make it all work.

Whoever said that saying kaddish is easy.

A note to my Esrog (citron)

My dear Esrog,

I owe you a sincere apology.

For your entire life you dreamed of the day when you would be purchased by someone who would perform with you the mitzvos (commandments) of the arba minim (the four species). Somehow you made your way from an orchard in Israel to Silver Spring with high hopes of fulfilling your singular mission in life. With your perfect features you were sure to have a once in a lifetime experience.

Your exquisite beauty caused you to be set aside as one of two possible choices for me to select as my esrog. As soon as I opened your box there was no question. You would be my esrog. Your color was radiant; your shape majestic; your skin spotless.

What a joy on the first day of Succos as I stood in my sukkah, unwrapped the cloth in which you had been packaged, coddled and kissed you, lifted you next to my lulav and began reciting the Yehi Ratzon and blessings. I so enjoyed shaking you together with the other species for the very first time.

At the appointed time we were off to shul together. I recited the Hallel with you in my hand; all the while admiring your beauty.

Then came Hoshanos.

Aveilus required that I put you down and instead of marching with you, hold the Torah so that everyone else could march with their esrog and lulav proudly in hand. You were left lying on a bench waiting for everyone else to finish Hoshanos. How disappointed you must have been. The day(s) you had been waiting for all of your short life, the opportunity to march with all the other esrogim, would never be yours. You, unfortunately, had been purchased by an aveil. You would never march during Hoshanos.

On Simchas Torah I experienced the pain you had been feeling throughout the Succos holiday. As everyone else circled the bimah during Hakafos and danced with the Torah I was a mere a bystander. I stood on the side, waited for several hours for the merriment of the day to conclude and musaf to begin, so that I could say kaddish.

As I waited, a thought crossed my mind. While you and I were both unable to join in the outward manifestations of the holiday, perhaps, we were nonetheless engaged in an important exercise. For how can public demonstrations of holiday joy and love of the Torah be meaningful without private individual commitment to Torah and mitzvos? Isn’t that what all the marching and dancing is supposed to be about?

Isn’t that what you and I were doing in our own very small way?

If I am right then we should feel an inner joy – even if this year it is wrapped in sadness.

If my serving as a chazzan on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur was a furlough of sorts from my aveilus, the Succos holiday has returned me full force to being a mourner.

First, my temporary reprieve which allowed me to serve as the chazzan is no longer. Thus as I recited the Hallel on the first day of Succos, it was as though my direct line to the Almighty had been shut down. I was back to sending my prayers through others.

Second, Succos is “zman simchasaeinu”, the holiday of our joy. We are commanded to be in a spirit of joy. For one in a state of mourning, however, achieving this state of joyousness is a challenge becuase our tradition pointedly (and publicly) reminds one of his state of aveilus. The most glaring example is the restriction on the mourner from participating fully in the Hoshanos, the “march” around the Torah with the esrog and lulav. The widely accepted practice is that the aveil does not march and remains stationary at his seat during this part of the service. Thus, while all the other congregants are circling the Torah with their esrog and lulav, the mourner stands out from the crowd as a non-participant. This tradition is particularly curious, as in general, mourners are prohibited from public displays of mourning on Shabbos and Yom Tov. Yet, on this holiday of joy, mourners are restricted from fully participating in a way that clearly and publicly identifies them as mourners. As I stood stationary during Hoshanos, I felt bad not only for myself but also for my beautiful esrog and lulav which sadly were “cheated” by having been purchased by an aveil.

Third, during Chol Hamoed Succos (the intermediate days of the holiday) we commemorate the simchas beis hashoeva ceremony (the drawing of the water) that took place during the holiday of Succos in the Beis Hamikdash (the Temple) with celebrations large and small in the sukkah. As a mourner one cannot participate in these celebrations. Thus, this year I did not travel to New York to attend the Simchas Beis Hashoeva of the Zvhiller Rebbe in his sukkah in Union City New Jersey. Yet, another reminder that I am an aveil – even during zman simchaseinu.

Clearly, the point must be that one whose parent has died cannot (and should not) be in a state of true or complete joy during the first year after suffering the loss – even at the very time when we are commanded to be joyous. Perhaps, as I discussed with my good friend Rabbi Dovid Katzenstien, there is another deeper point – that even in a state of aveilus, when the mourner is restricted, out of respect for his parent, from participating in activities that cause one to be joyous, the mourner must still at some, though reduced level, achieve some modicum of holiday joy – as if to say to the Almighty, “though I am burdened by my loss, I nonetheless am striving to fulfill Your commandment to celebrate this holiday in state of joy.” Perhaps, the mere attempt to do so, restrictions notwithstanding, brings honor to the departed in the heavens above.

Erev Succos (the day before the commencement of the holiday of Succos) was always a special day for me as a child. On the night of Erev Succos my father would come home early and take my brother Karl and me to the Lower East Side to purchase and esrog and lulav. In those days the hub of the Jewish retail district was the Lower East Side of Manhattan. Delancey Street, Essex Street, Hester Street and Orchard Street were lined with small Jewish owned stores on the first floor of tenement houses. After Yom Kippur almost every storefront was converted into an esrog store. Even the venerable Miller’s Cheese store rented out its window to an esrog merchant. The sidewalks were filled with peddlers’ tables selling hadasim and aravos. Each merchant and peddler would call out, in Yiddish, their wares and try to entice into their cubicle the throngs of people who came to find the prefect esrog and lulav. There were literally thousands of people on the streets, looking, selling and buying.

When we walked the streets with my father he would be stopped time and time again by a friend or an acquaintance. Many times he was greeted by a friend of his identical twin brother Hyman thinking that my dad was my uncle. My father would simply play along and then, as we walked away, would turn to us and say, “He knows Hymie”. I loved it! Eventually my father would find what he was looking for, negotiate the price and we would be back on our way home.

Many years have passed since I last bought an esrog with my father on the Lower East Side but every year as I go to buy my esrog and lulav in Silver Spring I think of and long for those wonderful adventures with him.

And for the last twenty nine years Erev Succos conjures up other sadder memories. I remember flying into LaGuardia on the eastern Shuttle early that Sunday morning in 1985 with my young family, going to my parents’ house and then to my father’s funeral in the main sanctuary of the shul which he built, the Queens Jewish Center. From there to the New Montefiore Cemetery on Long Island and then back to my parents’ house were we sat shiva for an hour. Then it was time to go to shul to say kaddish and welcome in the holiday. I will never forget the tears streaming down our faces as we made kiddush in the sukkah and recited Shehechiyanu.

Many years have passed since that day but the events of Erev Succos are etched in my memory.

Today for the first time in my life I am saying kaddish for both my parents. Tonight I will recite the kiddush and say the Shehechiyanu.

There I stood – in my father’s kittel, having just concluded singing the final kaddish of Neilah (the final prayer service of Yom Kippur), drained from a total of six hours as chazzan for Kol Nidrei, Mussaf and Neilah, when the gabbai came up to me and asked me to be the chazzan for Maariv.

‘Chazzan for Maariv? That’s for a mourner’, I thought to myself.

‘Wait a minute …. I am a mourner.’

At that very moment, not a second after the final words of Neilah, it hit me. My “furlough” from aveilus was over. The short respite that allowed me to serve as the cantor on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur was finished. I was back to being a full-fledged mourner with all the obligations and restrictions that go with that status. And I would remain a mourner, with no more “furloughs”, for the next eight months.

As I was assimilating in my mind this abrupt transition back, I realized another death related, sad fact. Tuesday evening and Wednesday, Erev Succos, (eve of the Succos holiday) would be the 29th yartzieght (anniversary of one’s passing) for my father a’h. Independent of my year of mourning for my mother a”h, I would be obligated to mourn for my father by saying kaddish, lighting a memorial candle and the other obligations and restrictions of the yartzieght day. There I was, in my father’s kittel leading the Maariv service on the Saturday night preceding his yartzieght just as he had been so diligent to do year after year when he had yartzieght for his parents.

In a mere split second I was no longer praying for life and good fortune. I was back to being a mourner – saying kaddish and thinking about death and mourning. At least, however, it was the first time in twenty nine years that my parents were starting the New Year together…. This time in the heavens above.

For many years the highlight of my Yom Kippur was watching my father a”h as he opened the Aron Kodesh (ark) at Neilah.

Year after year my father was honored with this important kibud. He would stand to the right of the Aron, perfectly erect, virtually at attention, draped in his talis, and enveloped in his white kittel as the Chazzan recited this final tefilah (prayer) as the heavens opened and the Yom Hakadosh (holy day) came to a close. It is a memory forever imprinted in my mind and one that I visualize every year as I begin the chazaras hashatz (Cantor’s repetition) of Neilah.

This past summer as we began the process of cleaning out my mother’s house we found in one of her closets my father’s kittel. It has not been worn for the last 30 years. This year when I daven Neliah I will, please G-d, wear my father’s kittel and I will be reunited with his neshoma (soul) in a most intimate way.

My father accomplished much in his lifetime. He was a devoted husband and father, an important leader of the Jewish community and a compassionate friend and advisor to many in need.

In his merit may my tefilos (prayers) to be accepted by the Master of the Universe and may we all be sealed in the book of life.

G’mar chasima tova.

I was scheduled to go to Columbus for a trial prep meeting on Wednesday night and to return on an 8 pm flight on Thursday night. That is until I checked the Columbus weather as I was driving to work on Wednesday and found that Columbus was forecasted to get “severe thunderstorms” on Thursday night. Just what I needed! To be stuck in Columbus on Erev Yom Kippur! In addition, as I looked more closely at the time for mincha in Columbus – 6:55 pm – and my arrival time in Baltimore – 9:25 pm – I realized that there was a very high likelihood that I would miss both mincha and maariv. When I got to the office I decided to call my co-counsel and explain my concerns. He was very understanding and agreed that we have a skype session instead. That is what we did, everyone was impressed by how effective it was and I was confident that I had avoided a major saying kaddish problem.

So I thought.

Our skype session lasted for hours and did not finish in time for me to make the 1:45 pm mincha minyan at the Agudah office. No worries, I thought to myself, ‘I will leave the office a bit early, go to the 6:35 pm mincha minyan in my shul, and then finish working in my home office after shul.’ Simple enough.

I left the office at 5:45 pm with plenty of time to make the 6:35 pm minyan. Much to my dismay, every route was clogged with traffic – New York style, bumper to bumper traffic. As I maneuvered through route change after route change the clock ticked away. No way would I get to shul by 6:35 pm. My stress level and frustration increased with every minute. Would I at least get to shul in time to say kaddish at the very end of mincha? At 6:45 pm as I was literally stopped in traffic near the 4 corners intersection (normally 5 minutes from YISE)I did not think I would make it. I was despondent. How was it possible that Erev Yom Kippur, in Silver Spring, I was going to miss saying kaddish? At this rate I could have gone to Columbus!

Chasdei Hashem (with G-d’s kindness) I eventually made it to shul just as they were finishing mincha and I was able to say kaddish. Not without a lot of stress and angst but thankful nonethless.

In the Kemp Mill neighborhood where I live there are a good number of minyanim on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. I am a chazzan in the main shul at Young Israel Shomrei Emunah. Each year, friends who have davened elsewhere ask me, “How did your davening go?’ My answer is always the same, “Time will tell. Let’s see how the year goes.” How well I ‘performed’ is not important (and is not for me to say in any event). The real question is: Were our prayers accepted? For the answer to that question we have to wait and see.

This year in addition to the usual question I have also been asked, “How did aveilus (mourning) impact your davening?” This question stems from the fact that an aveil is prohibited from serving as the chazzan on Shabbos and holidays. My serving as chazzan on the High Holidays is a somewhat “unique” exception from the norm. At this post-Rosh Hashanah, pre-Yom Kippur time frame, I am still contemplating the answer to this question. I do have the following preliminary observations, to date:

1. I do not want to burden the congregation for whom I am chazzen with my personal feelings. On the first day of Rosh Hashanah I arrived in shul at 7:30 am just as the davening (service) began. As I recited the very first kaddish, at the very beginning of the davening, I unexpectedly became choked up and had trouble completing it. I walked out of shul, composed myself, and determined not to allow my personal emotions to affect my public davening. It was neither appropriate nor fair to burden the congregation with my personal emotions.
   

    

2. I have a heightened awareness of life, old age and death. While I worked to suppress the outward manifestation of my emotions, I was clearly impacted by the heightened understanding I have gained this year of life, aging and death. These are no longer abstract concepts they are very real and I feel and envision their meaning.
   

    

3. The “others” whom I have had in mind while saying kaddish were in the forefront of my mind. Eyal, Gilad, and Naftali H’yd and all those who died and were injured in the Gaza war were very much in my thinking as I led the services. How could one recite Mimkomcha Malkeinu Sofia and not shed real tears for the three teenagers? How could one recite the Nesana Tokef without thinking of those who died and those who were injured? This year of all years how could one daven just for himself and his own family? How could a chazzan ignore these holy souls?
   

    

4. It felt a bit incongruous to be reciting the mourner’s kaddish from the amud. The restriction on serving as the chazzan on Shabbos and yomim tovim (holidays) has had a very real impact on me as normally I am asked quite often to lead the services on a “regular” Shabbos or holiday. Since my mother’s passing, I obviously have not done so. So on Rosh Hshanah as I found myself back at the amud It felt a bit “awkward” leading the services as the chazzan and then saying kaddish at the end of the davening as an aveil.
   

    

These are some of my preliminary thoughts. I have a long day of “chazzanus” ahead of me. More to come.

G’mar tov to all.

For over twenty years I have created a unique (one of a kind) personal Rosh Hashanah card which we send out to family, friends and business associates. My mother a”h would always check her mail as Rosh Hashanah neared to see if the card had arrived. Heaven forbid that someone she knew received the card before she did for I would definitely hear about it. And the few times she was not particularly in love with the card she let me know that, as well. She kept the cards and would display them in her house alongside pictures of her grandchildren and great-grandchildren.

This summer we travelled to Gush Etzion and came upon a location that we instantly decided had to be the subject of our 5775 card. The image, unfortunately, speaks for itself. It is the kidnap site of Eyal, Gilad and Naftali Hy’d.

When I was a child my father would wake me up at 4:30 am on Erev Rosh Hashanah and tell me to hurry because we needed to be in shul at 5 am for seleichos zechor bris. When we returned home a couple of hours later after selichos, davening, and hataras nedorim, the house was filled with the aroma of my grandmother’s raisin challah, her teiglach and other yom tov foods. Then the holiday phone calls would start. Family and close friends were either called or called us and blessings for a kasiva vachasima tova were exchanged. My mother always had pre-yom tov errands for my brother and me to perform. And before we knew it was time to get ready for shul, put on our new yom tov clothes and walk together with my father to the Queens Jewish Center.

When I was young the shul’s chazzan sang with a choir and I was one of the choir boys. We stood on the bima and sang with the chazzan throughout Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. To this day I use the nussach and niginum which Chazzan Schwerd taught met as a young choir boy. I loved the Rosh Hashanah nussach and for weeks looked forward with anticipation to singing with the chazzan. Many years have passed since those childhood days, but I remember them fondly every year as I wake up early to go to shul for zechor bris.

There is one pre yom tov custom, however, that I will not be able to perform ever again. As an adult, for many years, before every yom tov I would send flowers to my mother. She loved flowers and would always enjoy that large bouquet that was delivered to her home on erev yom tov. Today, as I make my last minute yom tov preparations and calls and as I review my nussach and niginum for this year’s davening, I really miss the flowers…..

Best wishes for a kasiva vachasim tova