Crying is a Gift

Grief - Two weeks

I went back to the Reform synagogue that I had been attending for the first time in a few months last night. It was so good to be back. I said hello to the people I know and told them about my dad’s passing. They were so nice - of course. The junior Rabbi whose father died on the 25th was not there, but they had observed Shiva for him the day before (Jewish friends - y’all correct me if I say or spell things wrong!) We had corresponded a bit, which was very comforting. I will make plans to meet with him again soon.

It was wonderful to be able to say my dad’s name aloud in the time when the Rabbi said the names of the people for whom we observe Yuhrzeit or Shloshim. She gives a space after for people to say the names of those not included or put them in the Zoom chat. It was kinda funny because my dad’s name was Christian Wilson, but that’s cool.

She mentioned that Rabbi Freedman would be wearing a torn black ribbon and talked about the significance of that, that everyone is aware that this person is in a time of early morning. I asked my mom where I can get one of those. I wonder why so much of America wants to completely ignore grief and pretend it doesn’t exist? It it a capitalist thing - get back to work? Is it rooted in Protestant culture? What do you think, Mom? (My mom is, among a lot of other things such as a PhD in Biblical Studies and Library and Information Science, a former hospice chaplain. She is also an excellent mommy to two cats.)

I remembered the first time I walked into the synagogue, on December 1, 2023. I had no thought of converting at all back then. My visit was a result of a conversation with a then 70 year old Jewish friend about where I might go to find some nice people who don’t hate Jews. Aha! A synagogue! (Or at least this one.) The synagogue, a beautiful several hundred year old one, happens to be next to where I get my cat’s compounded thyroid medicine, made into a fish flavored treat so my fish girl will eat it. ($63 a month, your contributions go straight to Loviefluffy’s fish flavored thyroid meds!) I was also already in contact with my first Israeli friend aka Ari who asked what synagogue I was going to, called his friend in Jerusalem who is friends with the head Rabbi, and made sure she knew I was coming. Thus the beginning of many of my social connections emanating from Israel. A friend of a friend of a friend of Ari is a friend of mine, and that’s a lot of people.

I was so nervous when I first showed up. I tried to figure out what was appropriate to wear but my male Jewish friends said the absurd, “Whatever, anything is fine!” and I didn’t want to bother my female Jewish friends so I looked it up. I wore black pants, a black sweater, and my Israeli blue scarf. I became known as the redhead in the blue scarf.

I cried the first time I saw the Israeli flag proudly displayed on the right side while the American flag is on the left. It was weird and wonderful to say a prayer for the Land of Israel. I understood a lot of the Hebrew which I should not but I do. I sat next to a wonderful woman in her nineties who showed me where everything was in the prayer book, and got to be friendly with her group of ladies who sit near the front on the center right. Make of that what you will.

Last night the turnout was small due to ten flakes of snow that terrified Philadelphia and suburbs, but my friend Susan was there, and her friend Syd who sings very well and loudly sat next to me. I always appreciate that because I’m trying to learn all the words by listening to them - that’s how I learn (for those of you who don’t know I am basically blind without my glasses and learn much more though sound than anything else. Including that I have memorized every lyric to almost every song I have ever heard.)

The Cantor preached but mostly sang the sermon last night (it is called the sermon? I think so. I know it’s not dharma talk - that’s Sunday morning for me). He’s great. I was surprised when I first started to figure out that Jewish musicians are more of leaders of the community than Christian musicians are. My organist high school boyfriend (may his memory be a blessing - he died of cancer at 40) used to say, “Do you know why church organists are so depressed? Everyone leaves during the postlude.'“ You would not expect the Director of Music to preach the sermon or lead Bible study. While there are some things that are very similar from the churches I grew up and and was active in to a Reform congregation (they get the same sign about “Whoever you are, you are welcome here” from the same printer as the UCC and just change the name of the congregation, it’s pretty obvious), this is different. I think I have someone I can ask about this…

It was cold but the sanctuary was warm. I like how I can just float along, no one pressures me to do anything, but everyone is welcoming.

Then I went home and watched another service that my friend plays in on Livestream. My father in heaven, as in Dr. J. Christian Wilson, is happy, I’m sure.

I cried during a few parts of the service, silently. There was a time when I never cried, but I can now. That’s why I say that crying is a gift. To be able to feel strong feelings is not something that I take for granted. I would much rather be fully alive to the sadness than be half dead to everything. I am one of those people who has been told that I am too much, overwhelming, too intense, you know, like Anakin Skywalker but without the killing half the galaxy.

I’m okay with that now. I don’t follow the scripts of the woke progressive young left, I don’t follow the life path of the conservative or even the “normal” of my generation and generations before, and at this point I’m clearly never going to. I convince people that I have dragons and cry in worship services. It’s why I can teach eighth graders. They rebel against the scripts and the normal. We get along.

It was good to be back. I am still invited.