I went to a Memorial service called Yizkor for the ending of Yom Kippur last night.

My Rabbis lovingly encouraged me to go.

“It’s really sad,” they said.

“Everyone will be crying but you will be surrounded by love and everyone there will be feeling sad too.”

My immediate fear was what if I don’t cry.

A widow who lost her husband at a Memorial service and her eyes are dry.

How will that look?

And I did not cry.

Not one teardrop fell.

And I did feel self-conscious about it.

“Tears, where are you? You show up at the oddest times. Why can’t you be normal?” I imagined saying to my tears in the way I desperately beg my puppy at the end of the day to come to me because I was ready for bed an hour ago.

“Where are you when I am surrounded by people who love me?”

“Why do you always wait until you are alone with me? I could use some company, a shoulder, a hand to hold, to be seen and known in my darker places.

But I know it's not their fault that my tears are shy.

The other night my son and I were doing our nightly routine of chasing our puppy to put in his crate.

I suggested to my son that we try something different.

“Let’s just sit and see what happens.”

Wagging his little tail, he came right to us.

For a moment, I forgave my dry eyes.

It seems like an analogy for life.

Chasing after what we think we should be or our kids should be or life should be or who should be in our life.

Chasing life ragged.

Hurrying to get everyone to bed.

Worried we will finish last, or ashamed because we are the first.

Terrified that at any turn along our road, we will find ourselves alone.

In a Synagogue with dry eyes.

My words on this page are my tears.

I don’t have to chase my words.

I sit still and they come.

The song is Breakdown by Jack Johnson