
Not exactly sure what to say to you, dad, on this second anniversary of your death.
I'd like to say that I miss you, but I don't think I was ever close enough to you to say that.
I loved you, but because I knew that I ought to and because I couldn't help loving my father, not because I believed I knew you or felt the sort of closeness that I would have needed for that to be really true.
I know you loved me; I could see that very clearly, on one or two occasions certainly. Sometimes when you were most frustrated or confused by things that didn't make any sense to you, you were the most open and human. I know you were proud of me for what I accomplished, and that it didn't matter to you what I accomplished as long as I tried my best. For your sake, I wish I accomplished more, and I wish I tried harder than I do.
I learned some things from you. Some things I learned from your example, like a love of reading, a love or learning in general, a thirst to know and understand as deep to the root of a thing as one could. I learned honesty from you, certainly. I learned a desire to be kind and open-handed and to see the beauty of nature.
Some things I learned to avoid, or try to avoid, from your mistakes. Your certainty that you were right, that you understood everything, even when you didn't. Your inability to admit mistakes. Your inability to communicate with, or even really understand, your life partner, no matter how much you loved her (and you loved her deeply).
Some attributes I wish had not carried over to me. I wish I didn't have your temper, so quick to anger. I wish I didn't have your intellectual arrogance, the dark side of a love of knowledge. I wish I didn't have your knack for starting an argument with someone you cared deeply for, for driving away the very person who meant the most to you. I have heard myself say and seen myself do things you said and did that I swore I never wanted to be part of me.
But you inspired true affection and respect with the career you never wanted, the career that became your life. You wanted so much to be a priest, and in telling you that you could not do the one thing that you desired most, the bishop suggested that you try teaching instead. And I don't believe I could count the number of people whose lives you touched by taking that advice, the number of students whose lives you changed. I saw the grown men and women who stopped you everywhere you went to thank you for what you gave them. I read the tributes in the newspaper when your obituary was published, in the tributes of your colleagues at the school and the gallery. I know how much you meant to all of them. And I only hope that some day, in some way, I can make that kind of difference, that I can bring that kind of benefit to the lives of others.
And I hope that I can find the same kind of creative spark you had. Yes, it was channeled in a very formalised and regimented way, but you could create, and I admire and envy that gift. I hope some day I'll find a way that I can engage in that kind of valuable work, the work of bringing something into the world for others to enjoy that wouldn't have been there without you.
I don't know if I will ever be even the sort of father you were. I wish you could have been the traditional father--dynamic, active, physically engaged. But that wasn't the sort of person you were, and I arrived, I think, too late in life for that to happen. I hope if I'm ever a father it won't be too late for me to do those things with my son or daughter.
I wish you had been the sort of father I could confide in, the sort of person I could come to for advice and counsel. You always seemed uncomfortable with that role. I'm sure there were reasons for that, but I hope if I am ever a father that I can, perhaps, do that a bit better than you did.
I have the prayer book you gave me when I was confirmed. I have the beautiful box that you made for the 1773 BCP Chris gave me. I have in my heart the memory of the days I wish I could have shared with you--my conversion, my bar mitzvah, my wedding to Neta (o, how I wish you could have been there for that!). And I'm sure there will be days to come that I will think of you and be sad you couldn't be there to participate in them. I'd love to share UUCSS with you the way I did TRS--I think you'd admire Rev. Lerner as I do.
But for now, let me close with the only words that seem appropriate to who I knew you to be and to what I did, at last, briefly share with you.
Yitgadal v'yitkadash sh'mei raba b'alma div'ra chirutei, v'yamlich malchutei b'chayeichon uv'yomeichon uv'chayei d'chol beit Yisrael, baagala uvizman kariv, v'imru, Amein.
Y'hei sh'mei raba m'vrach l'alam ul'almei almaya.
Yitbarach v'yishtabach v'yitpadar, v'yitromam, v'yitnasei, v'yit-hadar, v'yitaleh, v'yit-halal sh'mei d'kud'sha, b'rich hu, l'eila min kol bichata v'shirata, tushb'chata v'nehchemata daamiran b'alma, v'imru, Amein.
Y'hei sh'lama raba min sh'maya v'chayim, aleinu v'akol Yisraeil, v'imru, Amein.
Let the glory of God be extolled, let God's great name be hallowed in the world whose creation God willed. May God rule in our own day, in our own lives, and in the life of all Israel, and let us say, Amen.
Let God's great name be praised for ever and ever.
Beyond all the praises, songs, and adorations that we can utter is the Holy One, the Blessed One, whom we yet glorify, honor, and exalt. And let us say, Amen.
For us and for all Israel, may the blessings of peace and the promise of life come true, and let us say, Amen.
May the one who causes peace to reign in the high heavens cause peace to descend on us, on all Israel, and on all the world, and let us say, Amen.
Dad, you believed what you believed, and I believe what I believe, and they are very different things. I've even believed a multiplicity of things in my life, and for all I know, you did too. But I can certainly say, with all my heart
Oseh shalom bim'romav, hu yaaseh shalom aleinu v'al kol Yisrael, v'imru, Amein.
May the Source of peace send peace to all who mourn and comfort to all who are bereaved. Amen.