The Pause – Yizkor’s Urgent Summons

Life is a pause between our parents’ dreams and our children’s memories.

I stopped at Costco recently to gas up. As I began fueling, the pump emitted a series of clunks and the flow of gas was extremely lethargic. I haled a nearby attendant and brought the problem to his attention. He glanced at the pump, then looked at me and said, “I believe the Lord is trying to send you a message.” Amused, I asked, “What is the Lord’s message?” He replied with a smile, “The Lord is telling you, you need to slow down.”

We live in an era some call “the age of acceleration.” Driven by ever more powerful technology, everything seems to happen faster, move faster, become outdated faster. We’re bombarded by notifications and alerts. The Internet fosters instantaneous worldwide communication. AI, exciting and terrifying, performs even complex tasks in the blink of an eye. These developments don’t just amaze or frighten us, they change us. Excessive screen time and fast-paced digital devices train the brain to crave constant novelty and quick rewards. Average attention spans have measurably shortened. In our speeded-up world, we face decision overload, “a psychological environment in which we must constantly be on guard in order to adapt, evaluate and decide, at a pace faster than our cognitive wiring has evolved to handle.”

A growing body of research and experience holds that slowing down helps us lead more fulfilling, productive and meaningful lives. That insight accords with Jewish wisdom, ancient and modern. As a religion that sanctifies time, Judaism puts personal deceleration at life’s center. Hence, Shabbat, whose revolutionary premise is that human beings should work to live, not live to work. And the Torah insists that a weekly day of rest is not merely beneficial; it is mandatory and holy.

Shabbat is the pause that refreshes, but it is far from the only sacred cessation of Jewish life. Consider the mezuzah. Mezuzot do more than mark a home as Jewish. Though we may mindlessly breeze right by, they are there to be noticed. A mezuzah is a spiritual stop sign; it signals us to pause for a moment as we depart and return, to remember who we are and the values that bind us at home and on our way.

Our liturgy also builds in pausing, most notably silent prayer. So too our rituals. At a wedding, we pause near the end to break a glass. At a funeral, it is customary to pause briefly seven times carrying the casket to the grave, postponing a final farewell. And the burial is followed by shiva, a full seven day stop.

Jewish tradition also provides a rich vocabulary of berachot, blessings for daily life, for the privilege of sacred obligations – asher kidshanu b’mitzvotav, before deriving pleasure from something, like eating – hamotzi, to express awe at wonders of nature, and to celebrate milestones, shehehiyanu occasions. There’s even a blessing for seeing a friend after more than a year. The hardest beracha of all is recited when we learn of a loved one’s death or before their burial: Baruch dayan ha’emet, Blessed is the true Judge. With these hallowed words we profess that God is just, even if grief and loss call that into question and our hearts are broken. We affirm that light is visible even when we are cast into deepest darkness.

Our prayerbook poignantly observes, “Days pass and the years vanish, and we walk sightless among miracles.” Berachot teach us what to look for. Each is a reminder to pause and be fully present. If we’ve not yet learned the Jewish vocabulary of wonder and gratitude, “Barukh Ata Adonai” will suffice. When we open our eyes and pay attention, we find many reasons to say it.

Beyond the pauses our tradition instructs us to take, things happen on life’s journey that give us pause, unexpected and unwelcome events that stop us in our tracks, challenge and humble us. We encounter more of them as we age, like losing beloved family members and close, longtime friends, some far too soon or to cruel, relentless diseases. I am in awe of those who are courageous in affliction and find joy in life despite a devastating diagnosis. They teach inspiring lessons in the art of living to draw upon when we face our own health challenges.

Susie and I came to a temporary halt last year when I was diagnosed with breast cancer. It’s very uncommon in men, so rare in fact, that my surgeon’s report to my internist concluded, “Thank you for sending me this lovely woman as my patient.” Fortunately, she is a much better surgeon than proofreader! Happily, I’m well and told that recurrence is extremely unlikely. I found the tumor by self-examination, something we all should do regularly, men included, even if it’s initially awkward. It could save your life as it may have saved mine. Thankfully, my cancer was in no hurry.

Throughout, I found blessings that came with the burden. As a man, it was useful and instructive to be othered, a phenomenon women encounter daily. And now I know why women hate mammograms. I am profoundly grateful for world class medical care and more fully cognizant of the privilege it confers. My outrage that so many in this wealthy country lack access to adequate, affordable health care is now visceral. Above all, cancer deepened the closeness and tenderness between Susie and me, something that, after 57 years of a happy, loving marriage, I hadn’t imagined possible.

For the two of us and countless others, the most arresting trauma of recent years was October 7, a week after Susie and I had returned to our home in Israel. In the days and weeks following the barbarism, our Jerusalem synagogue was packed, a welcome place of refuge. Tears flowed freely and the anguish was palpable, but when we lifted our voices in song it was sublimely beautiful; it felt as if we were one collective soul. Never had Susie or I prayed with such intensity. In those moments, time stood still. October 7 remains an open wound, but as a result, we experience our spirituality more soulfully. We embrace our Jewish identity and love Israel even more passionately. We seek ways to help ease, if only a little, the burdens of those affected directly. And we rejoice in Israelis’ extraordinary resilience, in their emphatic proclamation, despite the horror and the heartache, Od Nirkod, “We will dance again!”

Jewish tradition is a time-tested guide for navigating life’s passages, obstacles and detours. Pausing as it urges us to do is uplifting and renewing. And when life inevitably gives us pause, it helps us discover unanticipated blessings that accompany the hardship. As Shakespeare wrote in As You Like It, “sweet are the uses of adversity.”

Of all the prescribed slowdowns of Jewish life, none carries deeper emotion than yizkor, which acknowledges our debt to those we’ve loved and lost. Parents, siblings, spouses and sometimes, tragically, even children. Remembrance is bittersweet; it reawakens happy memories and stirs the embers of grief. Joy and sorrow are companions in yizkor.

Over time, we become increasingly aware of our own mortality. The High Holy Days’ most dramatic passage, U’netaneh tokef, observes, “Our origin is dust and so is our end…[We are] like a flower that must fade, a shadow moving on, a cloud passing by, dust on the wind, a dream that flies away.” The prayer makes us face a fact we’d sooner forget – that there’s no assurance we or the people we love most will be alive in the morning, let alone next year. Psalm 90, keenly cognizant of life’s fragility and brevity, implores God, “Teach us to count our days rightly, that we may attain a heart of wisdom.” We echo that earnest plea.

At Kibbutz Be’eri, one of October 7th’s most devastated massacre sites, I met Yaniv Hegyi who, along with his family, somehow escaped death. Initially, he said, he struggled to understand why they had been spared, but he concluded, “The question is not why my family survived, but what meaning will I give to my survival.”

Jewish remembering is more than emotional reflection; it is a call to action. Yizkor doesn’t just look back; it looks ahead. It asks, “What meaning will you give to your life?” And, “How do you want to be remembered?” These probing questions are inseparable, because both memory and meaning involve how deeply our deeds and words touch others’ lives and hearts.

We know that from experience. Half a lifetime later, I still recall the Amsterdam streetcar driver who retrieved my lost wallet, the woman who paid my fare in New York City late one night when I unknowingly boarded an exact change only bus, the Israeli pedestrian who climbed into our car to direct us to our destination when we were lost, taking him far out of his way.

When we mindfully incorporate generosity of spirit in our daily routine, we create enduring memories for others and enhance the meaning of our lives. Even small, random acts of kindness can have a disproportionately large and lasting impact. It takes as little as a warm smile, a compliment, a helping hand or hug, really listening to someone, or an extra measure of patience in a frustrating situation. While we may consider such things inconsequential, the founder of Hasidism, the Baal Shem Tov believed they have cosmic significance, that performing today’s act of kindness could be the very purpose for which we were created.

While some memorable deeds derive from encounters, others arise from relationships, from asking ourselves, “Whom do I miss? Who am I concerned about? What fences need mending? What thanks are overdue? What most needs saying?” We all, I think, have friends with whom we’ve been out of touch for a long while. We know people who are going through a tough time, who lost a job or a loved one, who are ill or heartsick about something, or lonely. There are people we’ve hurt, whom we need to ask forgiveness or who hurt us, to whom we should extend it. It’s time, maybe past time for us to call, write or visit.

Most of us have a person who believed in us when we couldn’t, who inspired us, or helped us become who we are. Mine was my high school English teacher, Sally Bryan, who saw and brought out each student’s unique potential, including mine. Sixty-two years later, I still cherish her memory. Who’s your person? If they’re alive, we can let them know that our appreciation and admiration are abiding. As F. Scott Fitzgerald wrote in Tender Is the Night, “[Y]ou never knew exactly how much space you occupied in people’s lives.” It is a great gift to be told. And even if they are deceased or can’t be found, we can pay their caring forward.

If we’re blessed with living grandparents or parents, we can ask questions and prompt them to share their life stories and lessons. We can share ours with children and grandchildren and, most important of all, reiterate that we love them beyond measure and believe in them wholeheartedly. Such messages, burnished by time, become cherished keepsakes.

Pauses we take and pauses we are given, blessings we recite, discover, and confer, past and future, memory and meaning, mortality and eternity all coalesce in yizkor, and generate its urgent summons. Carl Jung called life, “a luminous pause between two great mysteries.” Yizkor’s perspective is more personal. To yizkor, life is a pause between our parents’ dreams and our children’s memories. For now, we are the rememberers. Later or sooner, we become the remembered.

Rabbi Eliezer taught, “Repent one day before your death.” How well the ancient sage understood life’s vagaries! He didn’t mean repent on our last day, of course; he meant every day, because it might turn out to be our last. Consumed by life-sapping busyness, we put things off, even worthy things, even potentially life-changing ones. We think, “I’ll do it tomorrow.” But as Rabbi Eliezer reminds us, we’re not promised tomorrow. Truth be told, tomorrow never comes. If we’re fortunate, we’ll be blessed with many priceless, irrecoverable todays. But we’ll never have a single tomorrow. As Joan Didion said when asked why she used her good silver every day, “Every day is all there is.”

Our children and grandchildren grow up too soon.
Our grandparents and parents are gone too soon.
Our spouses and partners, siblings and friends are ours but for a time.

We can’t restrain the rate of change or hold back the rushing years, but we can slow ourselves down, take a breath, and discern miracles all around us. We can express our gratitude and share our blessings more generously. In a worrisome world so rife with callousness and rancor, hatred and violence, we can choose consistently to be kind and advocate for justice. We can do meaningful, memory-making things that matter and last and become better and better versions of ourselves. With hearts growing in wisdom, let us make the most of the single, sacred, evanescent life we’re given. Today. This today. Every today.