Last fall I started Hebrew classes at my Synagogue and my goal was to have a Bat Mitzvah before my son had his so I could feel more a part of this occasion and Judaism. Growing up with a mother who was raised Methodist and a father who was raised Jewish, and then a step-father was who Episcopal, we celebrated a little of this and that. My most vivid memories are being extremely allergic to our pine Christmas tree, always opening my Christmas presents way too fast, and doing anything I could do to get out of going to Hebrew School.

Hebrew School was painful. Junebug did not feel like herself in dresses and shiny black shoes and she hated feeling like a fake. The Christmas trees and Menorahs combined with her family being new to Nashville, which then was a small city with a tiny Jewish community was hard. Junebug felt like an outsider and by 6th grade had complained enough to finally become a Hebrew School dropout.

When my mom remarried my stepdad, she fell in love with camping and canoeing, and with that becoming her religion, it was not too hard to convince her it was time for me to quit. And when her kids began to marry; she did not pressure them or really care at all if they married Jewish spouses, but ironically she had the fortune many Jewish moms wish for because five of her six kids did including me.

With Jay, I had another chance to give Synagogue a try as a young adult without the drudgery of Sunday School. While I did not know Hebrew, the songs, or many of the prayers, I loved sitting next to Jay who was so rooted in Judaism. I knew it was where I wanted to grow roots too and sitting next to him on many Friday nights before we had kids listening to the music that brought us there, again and again, I began to feel my roots too with Jay and, soon thereafter, our kids for almost twenty years.

I wrote earlier today about forgiveness. I guess it was on my mind since tonight was the beginning of the Jewish holiday, Yom Kippur. I have been feeling on the fence about the holidays and I was not sure if I was ready to have a front seat conversation with God about faith and forgiveness. Showing up to Synagogue as a widow felt vulnerable to me. I was afraid people would be looking at me and see me as an outsider without Jay; like Junebug did a long time ago. Up to the last minute, I was undecided about going.

And even though I did go to the Yom Kippur service, I went still feeling reluctant about what I wanted to say privately to God, and it was not easy as the music we loved began. My head was bouncing back and forth from his funeral to the empty seat next to mine. In one moment, he was next to me beaming with pride to be with his family, and then the next, I saw the casket and the shame and darkness motionless in the front of the sanctuary.

I have always been incredibly self-conscious about my singing voice but somehow next to Jay and next to Jay only, I could sing and so when the music began tonight, I missed hearing Jay sing every single song and I missed singing softer next to him; and I felt sad that I might never feel comfortable enough to sing again without him by my side. I missed resting my head on the soft camel sports coat he wore to the service the night before Zoe's Bat Mitzvah. I missed sitting on each side of our kids and looking at each other with smiles while we listened to them recite prayers and sing without the aloneness I felt as a kid. I missed sitting close to him and how he would sometimes rub my neck.

I missed driving home with him after the service because he would often continue to rub my neck, and tomorrow I will miss hearing him talk to his family about the sermon when we get together to break the fast. I will miss his melodrama about fasting with his repeated comments about how hungry he is, and then watching him pile his plate with his Grandma’s kugel recipe and his Mom’s brisket, and Sylvia’s homemade desserts at the Break Fast. I will miss laughing at the end of the evening when he hurries to unbuckle his belt once we are in the car and goes right for the Tums when we are home.

While I knew I would miss him tonight, I was most afraid of feeling lost in the wide-open without him. It’s the part of grief for me that goes way beyond missing someone. I think it is what I called feeling homesick as a kid. it’s me and Junebug, and we are on a long stretch of a road in the middle of nowhere trying to find our way back, and all we really want to do is disappear into the soft camel coat we could swear was right next to us tonight. Instead, we make the only choice we can and put one foot in front of another until we are home and can rest enough to find higher ground again.

Towards the end of the service, the choir sang Avinu Malkeinu. It was more beautiful than ever and I found my head once again in the past. I saw myself who is afraid of elevators, climbing the staircase in a Nashville airport hotel over and over and over again desperate to find the man who rooted me in so many ways for so many years. I imagined our heavenly choir from our synagogue singing this most beautiful version of Avina Malkeinu, Our Father, Our King, in the background of this horrifying night. I would like to believe even in the tragic moments we do not understand, there is something greater than us that does. And so my conversation began.

Avinu Malkeinu by Phish, Jay’s favorite band. Photo from the service the night before Zoe's Bat Mitzvah.