Beth Israel emails are important to read, not just because one of them is my blog. They tell important stories about the life of our congregation. In one of those emails is news of Temple members who have gone from life. Their funerals or memorial services are announced so that we can gather to pay our respects, hold each other, and remember.

This past week, especially, we’ve been struck by more than a few deaths. They were our dearest family members and closest friends. They built memories with us, and they knew our secrets, too. Those who lived long lives were blessed, but we wished their blessings went on a little longer. Those who died too soon were mourned even more deeply but not without gratitude for what we shared while we were together.

Without illusions, we know that all life is finite. We have read in the prayerbook, “Mortality is the tax that we pay for the privilege of love, thought, creative work—the toll on the bridge of being from which clods of earth and snow-peaked mountain summits are exempt. Just because we are human, we are prisoners of the years. Yet that very prison is the room of discipline in which we, driven by the urgency of time, create” (Gates of Prayer, CCAR Press, page 625).

These words help us find our own words to match our experiences. When we accompany elders of our congregation to their final resting place in the cemetery, we observe a generation, an era, pass away. One at a time, our family and friends who joined us at the table, on the boat, at the holidays, or for a walk, and a card game every week, are gone. What shall we do? We hang our heads and pay respect with gratitude for the power of their love and being. We hold the living among us for stability and courage. And we “go forth in peace to life,” after the last shovel of earth covers the grave.

We also read in the prayerbook, “We do not despair, for we are more than a memory slowly fading into the darkness. With our lives we give life. Something of us can never die; we move in the eternal cycle of darkness and death, of light and life” (Gates of Prayer, CCAR Press, page 627). Likewise, these words give substance to what we also know to be true. Our loved ones are not completely absent as long as we retrieve from death their light, joy, and meaning to us. Memories can take us back to any time we wish, and linger there for as long as we want.

As your rabbi, I listen to your stories and memories. Then I write a thoughtful eulogy to exhibit their life’s loves, work, play, and gifts. Your eulogies, too, complete a story that must be told. Even if we hear it only once, it serves a purpose. We need a final word in a closing sentence to conclude their life with gratitude and hope.

I surely enjoy baby namings and weddings that resume the life-cycle anew. But we can’t fear death or hide from its truths. Death is part of life, and the more we accept its meaning alongside its inevitable sadness, the more we appreciate each day filled with time for each other, not in competition, but in friendship and appreciation. Though the world struggles more these days, let’s allow the sobering effects of recent deaths restore our need for each other, in whose arms and comforting words, we are able to face another night and another day.

Together, may the memories of our loved ones be sources of blessings to us and all who were touched by their lives.

L’Shalom,