High Holy Days

My mom had started her decline suddenly and quickly. In July of 2008, I called her on the way home from a "Relay for Life" event. She was very confused, and I could tell something was wrong, and called her neighbor to check on her. She reported back that she had been taken to the hospital, likely with a minor stroke. I flew up to be with her and made arrangements for her to move into Assisted Living in the Mennonite village she lived in. She never made it. A month later, right before the move was planned, she had a second stroke and was in the hospital. She came out and moved to the convalescent care. I made plans to fly up and see her and finalize the Assisted Living arrangements. But in early September, I got another call: she was not well enough to live on her own. Within two weeks, the call was worse: she had stopped taking water. She would be dying within days. I booked my flight.

It was September 22, 2008.
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As a musician, I have been asked to sing for church/temple services of every kind my whole career. My first job was at Santa Ana First United Methodist Church. Then came First Congregational Church (U.C.C.), where I worked almost fifteen years. During that time, I sang at Jewish High Holy Days Services, Episcopal services, Catholic services and landed at a Presbyterian church, where I have now logged 16 years and counting. I've often joked that, if I end up in front of St. Peter, I'm going to ask him which pay stub he wants to see.

I first sang High Holy Days services at Temple Beth Ohr in 2001. I know that for a fact because one morning I left the house knowing that I had on my schedule: "meeting at Connect4Education in Woodland Hills in the morning, TBO rehearsal at 7pm."

That date was September 11, 2001.

My project in Woodland Hills meant a 2 hour drive if I didn't leave early enough. So I left at 5:45am, give or take, and heard the radio reports of the plane hitting the first tower as I pulled onto the freeway. By the time I got to my destination, it had all happened. Only an Angeleno can recall the most devastating event of his lifetime as "I was on the freeway..."

That night, we gathered at the Temple, not sure if we should rehearse or pray or,... there was no advice in Torah or any other scripture about how to handle that day. I assume we rehearsed, I honestly don't remember. But I do know that my memories of 9/11 are inextricably linked with Temple Beth Ohr.
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When I arrived in Oregon at my mother's bedside, she was largely non-responsive. But she would occasionally nod her head if I asked a yes/no question. I had the presence of mind to know that I wanted to ask her about her final resting place.

I told her that I had been thinking about it, and it seemed to me that the place she lived when she was happiest in her life was when she and my dad lived in Denver. I asked her if she would be happy knowing her final resting place would be in the Rockie Mountains. Without hesitation, she nodded her head yes.

The next spring, Lynda and I flew to Colorado to scatter her ashes in the Rockie Mountains. But of course, that is a different story one that ends in my finding my birth mother just a few months later. That September night in 2008 though, as my mother faded away, I was faced with a horrible dilemma. I had booked my return flight for September 28, assuming my mother would not last that long, and knowing that I was contracted to sing at Temple Beth Ohr on Erev Rosh Hoshanah (the evening service of the evening/morning pair), 8pm on September 29. As the 28th wore on, I made my decision to say my goodbyes to my mother, drive to the Eugene airport and fly home.

When my plane landed late that night, it was September 28, 2008.
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With the exception of a few years, I have sung High Holy Days at TBO every year since 2001. Services have landed on September 29 quite a few of those years. This year it happened again.

But of course there are other high holy days (lower case.) There was the day my father died in 1985, as well as the Christmas Eve six months later when the full weight of his death landed on me. After my mom's death, there was my mentor's passing in 2013, and my aunt (my mother's sister) that same year. After 2013, the danger seemed that every day should be made holy, because you never know who you will lose at any moment. Maybe all days are 'high' and 'holy.'

This year at High Holy Day services at TBO - the closing Yom Kippur service (Yizkor), which focuses on grieving those who have gone before, was particularly powerful. The cantor sang a song that had the entire room weeping, some almost uncontrollably. I listened, and thought of all of those high holy days where the world that I knew before had disappeared: the days when dad, mom, mentor and aunt had left us. I, too, wept.

That date was October 9, 2019.
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When I returned on my flight back from Oregon, I checked with the care facility. There was no change in her status. I left my house and drove to La Mirada, sat down for the pre-service rehearsal and did my job. At 7:50, ten minutes before the service was to begin, my cel phone rang. I stepped out, and took the call; it was Oregon. My mother had passed. I shed the tears I needed to, and swallowed the rest. I stepped back inside, and was able to get through the service until the end.

Rosh Hoshanah is the Jewish New Year. That service ends with "Shana Tovah", which basically translates to "Happy New Year." I cried as we sang it, for the first time letting my guard down. I was not there at my mother's bedside when she died. I couldn't be: it was High Holy Days.

It was September 29, 2008.