We Carry Them With Us
Last night, at the wedding of my cousin’s son, I witnessed one of the most moving moments I have experienced since making aliyah.
As the chattan stood beneath the chuppah, the names of soldiers from his unit who had fallen in the war were spoken aloud.
Not a passing mention.
Not a statement that they would be remembered.
Their names.
As I listened, tears filled my eyes.
There was something profoundly powerful about hearing those names spoken beneath the chuppah. In a moment overflowing with joy, the chattan made sure that those who could no longer be physically present were not forgotten.
By speaking their names, he was saying:
“You are still part of my story.”
In recent months, I have seen many forms of remembrance in Israel. I thought of the Jerusalem café established by two soldiers in memory of those lost from Kibbutz Nahal Oz. A place filled not with silence, but with conversation, laughter, and life.
Last night, under a wedding chuppah, I witnessed another form of remembrance.
Different settings. Different expressions.
Yet the message was the same.
We refuse to allow those we loved to become merely names in a history book.
We carry them with us into the future.
As I sat there, I realized that perhaps this moment touched me so deeply because it reflected something I have come to understand in my own life.
Almost ten years ago, my brother was killed in the car accident that forever changed my life. In the years that followed, I also lost both of my parents.
Those losses do not disappear.
The grief does not magically vanish.
And yet, life continues.
Since moving to Israel, I have experienced extraordinary joy. I have found community, purpose, friendship, Torah, and opportunities to contribute in ways I never imagined. I have laughed. I have celebrated. I have created new memories.
Not because the pain is gone.
Because the pain and the joy now walk side by side.
When something makes me laugh, I often think of my mother. She had a gift for making people laugh. Sometimes I imagine what she would have said. She always seemed to have the perfect comment, the unexpected observation, or the witty remark that would leave everyone laughing even harder.
Sometimes I catch myself saying, “Mom, you would have cracked up at this. And then you would have added one more comment that would have had me laughing even harder.”
When I see an especially sweet child, I think of my father. As the candy man in shul, he had a remarkable ability to connect with children. He knew how to make every child feel special, seen, and important.
Even now, when I see a child with a bright smile or an infectious personality, I find myself thinking, “Dad, you would have loved this little one.”
Many times, I wish they were here with me. I miss them so.
These moments remind me that the people we love never stop influencing our lives.
Their voices remain in our memories.
Their values shape our decisions.
Their love accompanies us long after they are gone.
As I listened to the names of those fallen soldiers being spoken beneath the chuppah, I realized that this was not simply an act of remembrance.
It was an act of love.
The chattan was making sure that the people who had mattered to him were still part of one of the most important days of his life.
We do not leave our loved ones behind.
We carry them with us into each new chapter.
Into our celebrations.
Into our milestones.
Into our laughter.
Into our future.
And sometimes, beneath a wedding chuppah, their presence can be felt more strongly than ever.
