Posted on September 25, 2026
In preparing for these High Holy Days and the myriad tasks that need to be completed in advance, there are two ways in which I make sure that everything gets done. First, and most importantly, I have an amazing team of colleagues, keeping me in check and reminding me of the assignments I have not yet finished or sometimes even thought about beginning.
And then, there is my trusty to-do list. I am a big fan of writing down the tasks that have to be completed. And if I’m honest, I’m an even bigger fan of the thrill I get when I cross something off. On occasion I might even have added an already completed task to the list just so that I can feel the satisfaction of drawing a line through it.
More often than not, you will find me with three to-do lists running concurrently; one for home, one for my TST responsibilities, and one for whatever project I am currently working on.
These lists can be immensely helpful – because so much of what we do has a set beginning and a set ending. There is something to accomplish, we accomplish it, and then we get the thrill of drawing a line through it and saying, it is done.
But, when it comes to grief and mourning, we often seem to expect that same structure. There appears to be a belief that these too will have a beginning and an ending – a point when we can say that it is finished and we are done. Or perhaps more painfully, a point when those around us, witnessing our loss, can decide that we should be done.
When we talk about Elisabeth Kübler-Ross’ five stages of grief, they are frequently presented as though they are a series of steps which a person moves through. It is as if we are supposed to progress through grief as though there were a fixed destination to which we are traveling; so that when we arrive at acceptance it is done, the mourning is complete. We can all move on.
But this is not how they were ever intended, they weren’t meant to be a linear progression. As Kübler-Ross and David Kessler write: “They are tools to help us frame and identify what we may be feeling. But they are not stops on some linear timeline in grief. Not everyone goes through all of them or in a prescribed order.”[1]
Even the language used around grief feeds into this narrative. People will talk about “moving on,” about “life getting back to normal,” about “being ready for what’s next.” These phrases can be deeply unhelpful, because they suggest that grief is a journey with a destination, that eventually we will arrive on the other side – leaving it behind.
But that’s not the way grief works, and that’s not the way it’s supposed to work.
Grief is something that we will all inevitably experience – it is after all the price we pay for loving that which death can touch. But our society is often uncomfortable with that truth and doesn’t want to sit with it for a prolonged period. People want the mourner to have space to grieve, but they want to know it will end and not take too long.
In the immediate aftermath of a loss people are attentive and ready to offer support. But frequently, after a few weeks or maybe months, while the mourner is still actively grieving, those around them are no longer thinking about the loss in the same way, and they want life to go back to the way it was – even though the mourner’s world has changed irreparably.
At first glance our Jewish tradition can be misunderstood as feeding into the misconception that grief has stages through which we move. The specific markers during the first year give the impression of steps on a journey towards a conclusion.
Immediately after burial we begin the seven days of shiva. We transition into sheloshim – the first 30 days. And then finally, towards the end of that first year, we unveil the headstone, and we begin marking the Yahrzeit – the anniversary of our loved one’s death.
But with that first Yahrzeit Judaism does not suggest that our mourning has come to an end, that the journey through grief has concluded. Instead, the end of that first year really serves as the beginning of a lifetime of memory and mourning, as we learn to carry our loved one with us in a new and different way.
The observances of the first year of mourning are intended to guide us through the many firsts we will experience without our loved one. And it is not just about the Jewish markers. It is about so many firsts that we have to encounter – the first birthday, the first family gathering, the first moment when we instinctively reach for the phone and then remember that they are no longer on the end of the line.
The rituals do not remove the pain; instead, they help us to learn how we will carry our loved one with us in a new way. They help us begin to discover how we might approach these moments when they roll around again, as they inevitably will, without our person physically by our side. They provide a framework for the first year. They are signposts on a journey with no fixed destination. They are intended to be helpful, but not exhaustive.
Alongside the Yahrzeit we have these moments of Yizkor sprinkled throughout the year. Yom Kippur’s Yizkor may be the most well attended, but the truth is that the service of Yizkor is also observed at the conclusion of Sukkot and Pesach, and on the festival of Shavuot. Our tradition requires that we repeatedly return to memory.
Often the mourner is forced to remember alone, to continue the journey of grief alone, to present a face to the rest of the world as though they are not carrying and holding the memory each and every day. The world around us is uncomfortable with the idea that grief is an unending journey – it doesn’t want to face this reality.
With this calendar of remembrance, Judaism ensures that we never go more than six months without a formal moment where the community gathers in support and comfort. Allowing those who carry the weight of grief to stop and remember their loved one not in private, but in the midst of the communal embrace. Yizkor makes space for all of the feelings that the memories evoke and presents an opportunity when they do not have to be hidden inside, but can be voiced and shared.
Yizkor is a gift of Judaism. It does not assume that we move through the stages of grief, that we should get over it, that our mourning will have an end. Instead it gives us an opportunity to remember, mourn, and grieve surrounded by our community and our people. But more than this, it serves as a reminder to others that we are still mourning, we are still grieving, we still feel the pain of the loss – it may be less acute and intense than it once was, but it is still there.
On the Yahrzeit and on Yizkor we light a candle. The light rekindles the memory of our loved one deep in our souls. It allows us an opportunity to more actively grieve and mourn. And by the warmth of the flame we can feel the warmth of their love stretching across time and space.
I think about my own journeys with grief for the loved ones I have lost. There are many of the central mourning rituals of our tradition that I was unable to observe. I was only able to attend the funeral and shiva for one of my four grandparents. And I am aware that the absence of these rituals has impacted my own journey through loss and mourning.
To this day, I regret the circumstances that prevented me from being physically present for the funerals, but I have also come to recognize that these gatherings, these formal moments, are just that – moments on a journey of loss and memory that continues throughout our lives.
Rarely does a day go by without a memory of one of my grandparents entering my thoughts. I will admit that initially these memories brought pain – pain at their loss, pain that I didn’t spend more time with them, pain that I can’t share them fully with my children. Sometimes the memories still bring pain, but today that pain feels different. And more often than not, it is accompanied by a smile at the memory being evoked.
Benny, our youngest, did not get nearly as much time with my Saba, my grandfather, his great-grandfather, as I would have wished. But I see the way that he carries something of Saba forward. I once shared with Benny that whenever I would walk with Saba through the streets of Tel Aviv, he would never pass a busker without putting a couple of coins in their hat. Benny has taken this memory to heart, and whenever we see a musician on the street he looks up at me, and I know that it’s time to reach into my wallet. He will mention Saba, and for a moment I feel the pain of his absence, followed by the immense blessing of sharing his memory and seeing my son continue a small part of his legacy.
And perhaps that is the power of memory. Benny does not remember the walks through Tel Aviv, but in carrying Saba with me, the lesson of the memory has become Benny’s. And when we walk past a busker it is never really just the two of us.
We don’t move on from the loss of our loved ones, but we do find ways to move forward.[2] We carry our loved ones with us in the stories that we share, in the memories that we cherish, and in the values that continue to guide our lives. We cannot alter their absence, but we can recognize their presence in the people we have become and in the way they continue to touch our lives.
Kübler-Ross’ stages of grief may have led to assumptions about how we move through mourning, as though there is a destination we are journeying towards, when it will be over. But she never intended it in that way. She even wrote: “The reality is that you will grieve forever. You will not ‘get over’ the loss of a loved one; you will learn to live with it.”[3]
To this Judaism would add that we learn not only to live with the loss, but to live with the memory.
Yizkor, throughout the year, and especially on this most sacred of days, is Judaism encouraging us to take time to remember in the midst of our community. To cherish the memory of our loved ones, whether the loss is recent or one we have carried with us for many years. Because Yizkor recognizes that the feelings of loss do not go away. They may change over time, but we carry them with us. And it reminds those around us that we are still grieving and remembering, travelers on an eternal journey.
Grief and mourning are not tasks to be checked off a to-do list. There is no moment when we can simply draw a line through them and consider them done. Because the love that lies at the heart of our grief does not disappear when someone dies. Love lives on, love endures, love is eternal.
We carry our loved ones with us, and through their memory we feel the love that they gave, the blessings that they shared, and the way that they continue to touch our lives. Their absence remains, but we still feel the love.
And so today, at this moment of Yizkor, we feel the love of those who are no longer with us, we feel the support of our community that surrounds us, and together we remember.
[1] Kübler-Ross and Kessler “On grief and grieving: Finding the meaning of grief through the five stages of loss” p.7
[2] While not directly cited, I really appreciated Nora McInerny’s Ted Talk: “We don’t “move on” from grief. We move forward with it” for helping with this language and the ideas of this sermon. It can be watched or read here: https://www.ted.com/talks/nora_mcinerny_we_don_t_move_on_from_grief_we_move_forward_with_it
[3] Kübler-Ross and Kessler “On grief and grieving: Finding the meaning of grief through the five stages of loss” p.230
