“The death of those we now remember left gaping holes in our lives.
But we are grateful for the gift of their lives.”

As a kid, my parents and the congregants would shoo the children out of the temple on those holidays when the Yizkor memorial services were about to begin.

There is a custom that if your parents are alive, you should not remain inside during the service, so that everyone in the room be ‘on the same page,’ all saying the same memorial prayers.

Before Yizkor was recited, the Rabbi would make heartfelt entreaties for Jewish martyrs who died leaving no one to say Yizkor for them. The Rabbi would continue with tales of Holocaust victims, congregants who had passed, and other relatives to be remembered.

Everyone sat solemnly during this appeal. But then, as soon as the Rabbi would say, “...and now please rise,” the mass exodus of children and young adults would begin.

My current Rabbi gives the same kind of speech, and then the children leave - so it appears that this custom is well ingrained in the Jewish psyche.

I had thus been banished from the service for thirty two years, until my father died a few years ago. The time had finally come when I had to stay inside for the service.

I have remembered my father every day for the past fifteen years. I did not think I needed a special twenty minutes set aside four times per year to do so. But for some reason this year, the words of the prayers took on a different meaning.

The prayer in memory of a father reads, “In loving testimony to his life, I will help perpetuate ideals important to him. May I prove myself worthy of the gift of life, and the many other gifts with which he blessed me.”

My father was a gentle, loving, kind, man. He was active in the community, and worked hard to support his family. As I said the words, I thought, “Dad, how am I doing? Am I making myself worthy? Do I need to change? Am I like you?”

And I thought, why am I asking you now? Why couldn't I ask when you could answer? Why couldn't I take those twenty minutes four times a year to tell you that I'm proud of you? That I want to perpetuate ideals important to you, because I'm proud of you. Because I honor you.

My mother, thank G-d, is alive and well. She was visiting my sister in Texas, and wasn't with me at the service. She is one of those “young” seniors whose age no one can believe. She swims, exercises, travels. She's happy. And I notice lately, she tires more easily. During Yizkor, I remembered.

I thought; have I told her that I will prove myself worthy of the gifts with which she blessed me? That I honor her, and that she is important in my life. That she contributed to who I am and what I've become?

I don't want to wait for Yizkor.

Perhaps there should be another service, immediately after. A short service. Everyone who left comes back to sit with their parents, to say prayers of thanksgiving. They can be thankful that they didn't have to stay for the memorial prayers, and can remember those still living who enrich their lives.