There, in the Midst of Mourning

There, in the midst of mourning, in the very temple
where I laid my father to rest eleven years ago, I sat,
feeling a little outside
my own body.

I was not in the first row this time, but
in the second, one row, one degree, removed from
what was going one in the hearts of those
in the first -- the immediate family in whose blood
flowed the blood of the person for whom
they were weeping.

I did shed some tears of my own, hearing
the cantor again, her strains pulling directly at the frayed edges
of my still broken heart. The pain was not only for
the father I miss, but for his widow, just departed.
Listening to the words of remembrance, I became aware of
my own connection with her,
my own reasons for grieving.

In that second row I sat, my heart
open and full of love -- love for my own family,
the wife and children miles away. Being in that sacred space
opened my heart up further than just Jeanette, Diego
and Jackson Fuchs. I felt the love for my siblings and
step-siblings, my in-laws, for my parents and step-mother,
and for all the ancestors who came before me.
My heart opened wider and it invited in the
strangers in the room, and their ancestors, as well.

As the cantor sang on in an ancient language
I didn't understand, and yet somehow comprehended more clearly than
any word I have ever spoken, my heart opened further,
and I was reminded of the truth I am so
grateful already to have understood some time ago:

God is love.

And love will save us all.