Lost among the graves, I wondered why I was there
Tammy and I go way, way back. We share the kind of friendship that makes it possible for neither one of us to hesitate to call if something came up, even after eight or ten years without contact.
Something came up.
Tammy’s husband was about to undergo a serious medical procedure. A few days before the procedure was scheduled, Tammy felt a strong urge to daven at her mother’s kever, asking that her mother beseech Hashem that the procedure go well.
But Tammy lives in the US, and her mother is buried in Israel, so she settled on doing the next best thing: asking someone to daven at the kever. Since I live not far from the cemetery, Tammy asked me if I’d be willing to go. She was quick to assure me that if I couldn’t go, she’d understand, especially as the procedure was only four days away — and two of those days were Friday and Shabbos.
I pondered her request. I’ve attended a few funerals, but besides kivrei tzaddikim, I’ve never gone to a kever to pray. I was expecting to find some inner resistance to going. Fear, perhaps, or pressure. I was surprised to feel no negative emotions at all. Rather, I felt privileged. Chosen.
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