Hold Space: A Meditation for Yizkor
This Yom Kippur yizkor service, hold space for grief in all of its forms.
Hold space for the relieved loved-ones at illness’s end. The family that let out its collective breath when their loved one finally passed. Whose grief began with the diagnosis, spanned the ebb and flow of illness, and softened in death or maybe, continued unabated.
Hold space for the angry children. Who endured abuse or addiction as it tore through the fabric of their family. Who saw a father’s anger put holes in walls. Who watched a mother unable to be present. Who hid in their rooms until the yelling stopped. Who waited for somebody to step in. For the children now tasked with praying for parents who do not deserve it… or maybe deserve it… or definitely still deserve it. The children wondering how to show up at all.
Hold space for the parents who mourn the babies that never were or no longer are. Who held their child as a fleeting dream, unrealized. Whose child was never created or never emerged or stayed too briefly. For the parents who never got to sing lullabies or pack lunches or talk about the moon. Whose child never reached adulthood or left it too soon. The parents with no child to hold or other children to hold, but not this one. Who feel pressure to move on, move forward, stop talking about it, be grateful.
Hold space for the pissed off. Whose grief is not a crumpled tissue but a fire burning in their chest. The mourners who shake with rage, cradling lost futures in empty arms. Asking God to fill their empty table chair, warm the other side of the bed, restore their lost tomorrows.
Hold space for the disoriented and distant. Who can’t remember the last time they spoke to their brother and feel the weight of praying for a stranger. The estranged adult child who stepped away for their safety and does not mourn. For the children sitting in the shadow of a long ago lost sister whose absence feels hard to comprehend. For the teenager who lost their father young and has no memory of him beyond the absence itself. For the old man who lost his wife at 25 and can no longer remember her hands. For those who feel unmoored and alone in a room of deeply hurting people.
Hold space for the overwhelmed who hold grief at arm’s length. Who will pray now and mourn later, in private, clutching their mother’s perfume bottle, their father’s baseball cap, their spouse’s anniversary card, their daughter’s onesie.
Hold space for those that weep bitterly for a fifty-year-old loss, seared in the body with no relief. The loss they were told would dull with time, but never did. Who feel ashamed at the depth and endurance of their pain.
Welcome the resentful. The angry. The numb. The hurting. The confused. The joyful. The calm. The lonely.
Welcome the mourner who does not want to mourn, who does not know how to mourn, who cannot yet face mourning, who feels no acceptance or peace. Welcome the mourner whose grief feels complicated and shameful. Welcome the kaleidoscope of grief as it settles into the siddur, the pages buckling under the weight of memory and emotion. Welcome this moment of being and know that however it shows up is ok.
Read Sarah’s work on grief here:
When our biggest emotions come knocking — anger, sadness, grief, fear — it can be difficult to let them in. It may feel easier to ignore them, reject them, avoid them, or numb them than to face them, welcome them, and address them. But why is that? Why is it so difficult to accept difficult feelings? What happens to us when we come face to face with so much discomfort?