My mother Fran, my brothers Jerry and Randy, our children and many friends spent much time with dad as he moved toward his death. Dad was alert, friendly and smiling as always, enjoying visits from a steady stream of relatives and friends. We even celebrated a nice Shabbat dinner on his hospital floor.

I sat with Dad late evening hours after visitors had left, or early morning before visitors came to start the daunting task of coming to terms with his inevitable death.

As the end approached, my father, a strapping strong man, lay quietly in bed, not moving much, slowly transforming into something else, or starting a journey to somewhere else. I needed time and space to fit dad's death into my emotional and spiritual being, and the traditional mourning observance provided me the process.

Let me set this in the context of my observance. I was not raised observant. As a member of Kohelet families of varying backgrounds, we are proud of our close community and evolving approach to Judaism. We do not profess to be observant or learned, but respect their value. Each of us starts from wherever our background has led us, and begins a path toward more, rather than less.

When Dad died, I decided to observe the traditional rituals, which became more meaningful as the year progressed.

During the seven days of shiva, I sat on a low chair as prescribed, and spent time meditating on my Dad’s loss, particularly the question of where did my father go? I discussed these issues with anyone who would listen.

Observing the shiva among friends was elevating, educational and spiritually satisfying. It provided an opportunity to think about the role that visitors play. Some viewed their role as providing diversion, to take my mind off of my loss. But, rather than forget about my loss, I wanted to focus on its meaning. We reflected about the grand scheme of life, of which death is a part.

I learned that Jewish mourning has several primary goals.

First, it assists the mourner in coming to terms with loss. "Coming to terms" is different from "getting over" or "feeling better." It is the realization that life is given by G-d and taken by G-d, Who judges when and under what circumstances. We naturally feel a sense of loss and helplessness, but the year of mourning strengthens us to acknowledge G-d's design of life and death.

Second, the mourning process helps our beloved’s soul on its journey to a status beyond our understanding. Judaism provides an elaborate matrix of intersecting concepts to describe the soul’s journey and experiences after death.

Our soul emanates from G-d to merge with bodily attributes, i.e. size, beauty, plainness, intelligence or simplicity, time, place and circumstance. The soul's mission is to wrestle with the physical attributes and circumstances it is dealt, and to address issues that come up during life.

After the prescribed life span, the body dies, the soul disengages, hovers, and then embarks on a path of cleansing, possibly rehabilitation and refinement for the next cycle, until it finally cleaves to G-d.

I once heard this poignantly at the tombstone dedication to the memory of a six-year old friend. We wondered why a child of that age would be taken and, in her circumstances, through the difficult tribulations of brain cancer.

One answer to this difficult question, not fully satisfying at the time, but makes more sense now, was that perhaps her soul needed only six years to complete its assigned task. Having finished her journey, her soul took up residence with G-d for eternity.

Our duty as mourners is to help the departed soul along its path through the recital of kaddish, the ancient Aramaic prayer that sanctifies G-d's name. The kaddish punctuates our prayers, and concludes our study sessions, with a resounding and positive declaration:

“Magnified and sanctified be G-d's great name. Amen.

In this world which G-d created in accordance with G-d's will.

May G-d establish His kingdom during your lifetime, and during the life of all the House of Israel. And let us say, Amen.

Let G-d's great name be blessed forever.”

No sorry moribund lines here; only optimism, hope and faith, praising, glorifying and exalting G-d, and seeking renewal and peace for all Israel.

The mourners' kaddish is attributed to Rabbi Akiva's encounter with a pitiful man burdened with a heavy load. Inquiring about the man's plight, the man told Rabbi Akiva that he was dead! He’d been a merciless tax collector, abusive to the poor and reviled by his community. He would be relieved of his travail only if his son would recite the kaddish before his congregation.

Rabbi Akiva went and sought out his son. The community uniformly cursed the man and described his son as an unworthy heathen. But Rabbi Akiva persevered and taught his son the kaddish. Soon, the forlorn man appeared to Rabbi Akiva in a dream, reporting that he was saved from Gehenna.

The  kaddish provides consolation for the mourners who recite it, and curiously, also to G-d. From our perspective, a person's death diminishes our world, and from a Divine perspective, it also diminishes G-d's creations. We restore our own faith in G-d's divine plan, and restore to G-d the full glory diminished by G-d's loss of a member of His creations. Our public affirmation of faith and optimism in the face of loss nourishes the world and invigorates the departed soul.

The third goal in the Jewish mourning process, as with all Jewish ritual and learning, is Jewish continuity. I find it comforting to know when I do a Mitzvah that Jews throughout the world are doing something identical and have been doing so from time immemorial. My travels to synagogues in Brookline, New York City and its suburbs, and St. Louis, as well as my Denver shul hopping demonstrated this continuity.

Completing the mourning process for my father, I feel like I re-read a beloved book, and am ready to put it away in an honored place on my library shelf. It is not a book that I will discard, but it also is not a book that I will read daily. This book will cast its glow and blessing on my house, to be touched as I run my hands across the books lining my shelves, and will be opened from time to time so it can nourish me throughout my life.

The mourning process allowed me to come to terms with my father's passing in a way that has integrity, an understandable shape and a holy purpose.

As a mourner, I had to feel my way through the required observances. For example, I had to consider whether a business lunch was camaraderie or a practical matter of business. I also had to consider how to avoid music. I spent my mourning period in a heightened degree of sensitivity; my father's face, life and death were my constant companions.

Many find it difficult to attend synagogue every day to say kaddish, not to mention twice a day. In my case, the congregation allowed me to lead the daily services.

I traveled to Boston and New York during the saying of kaddish, but my commitment did not waiver. I was lucky to find the Maimonides School in Brookline, where I could take the subway and train every day to participate in a morning minyan. I was fortunate to have a good friend in New York take me shul hopping during my visits there. I attended the old and interesting Garment Center synagogue, a Young Israel congregation in Scarsdale, a spectacular, well-endowed institution and Lincoln Park Jewish Center in Yonkers, where I was privileged to speak to the mincha-ma'ariv congregants. I also attended Beit Abraham in St. Louis (Sfard) and Beit Menachem (Ari) Chabad in Denver.

Each experience showed me that Jews of all stripes around the country were doing exactly what I was doing. Ashkenaz, Sfard and Ari; each nusach ancient, holy and satisfying.

On three occasions, I was unable to find a minyan to recite the kaddish. It occurred once in the upper reaches of Vermont, once at a highway hotel on the way to St. Louis, and once when we couldn’t muster a Friday morning minyan.

Tradition requires us to recite kaddish each day but one of the principal purposes of doing so is to help the soul, the neshama of the departed. The Hebrew spelling of neshama uses the same letters as the Hebrew spelling of Mishna. Accordingly, if it is impossible to say kaddish due to lack of a minyan, we can study a Mishna. When unable to say kaddish, I studied a mishna from the Talmud, continuing the process prescribed for a loved one.

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