I believe we are here in this world to learn, to share, and to be kind. My own spiritual path is what I call “Cafeteria Catholic,” shaped not only by my upbringing but also by meaningful connections with friends of other faiths. My connections within the Jewish community have generously shared their traditions and beliefs with me over the years.
One of my dearest friends, deeply devoted to her Jewish faith, recently introduced me to Yahrzeit during a time when we are both grieving unimaginable loss. She lost her daughter, and I lost my son; both in the month of April. As she prepared to observe her daughter’s Yahrzeit, I realized I didn’t understand what it meant. That moment became the beginning of a powerful lesson.
She gave me a copy of The Jewish Way in Death and Mourning by Maurice Lamm, and through it, I came to appreciate the beauty and meaning of this tradition. Yahrzeit (pronounced “YOUR-t-sight”) is the annual observance of a loved one’s passing, marked according to the Hebrew calendar. My son’s death date is April 15, 2022, which corresponds to 14 Nisan/April 21, 2027.
What struck me most is how Yahrzeit creates space to remember, reflect, and keep those we’ve lost present in our lives. Traditions may include lighting a candle that burns for 24 hours, reciting prayers (Kaddish), visiting a gravesite, fasting, giving to charity, and taking time for personal reflection. As Lamm writes, it is also a moment to acknowledge the depth of loss, the “unforgettable despair” while honoring the life that was lived.
Though rooted in Jewish tradition, I believe the spirit of Yahrzeit transcends religion. It offers something universal: a way to carry our grief while continuing to honor love.
Over the past four years, our family has found our own way to remember my son, Feeney. Each year, we honor Feeney by doing something he loved. This April 15, we will visit Peachtree DeKalb Airport, a place that filled him with wonder. As a little boy, he was mesmerized by the planes and especially the Goodyear Blimp that once flew overhead or was parked on the runway. That “little airport” became a place of joy for him, and now, for us, a place of remembrance.
This year, I will also light a candle for his Yahrzeit—a symbol of his vibrant spirit and love for life. I will fast, too, as a personal reflection of the day that changed everything, a day marked by a depth of sorrow I had never known.
Meanwhile, my friend will gather in her synagogue, as she has for more than 20 years, to pray, remember, and mourn her daughter. Though our traditions may differ, our grief and our love connect us.
And in that connection, there is something sacred.
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