Walking through the Valley

What follows is the meditation I wrote for our Yom Kippur Yizkor service.

At every funeral and every shiva minyan and every memorial service, we read the words of the twenty third Psalm. “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. Adonai roi lo echsar.” Its words are familiar and comforting. For those in their seventh and eighth decades and who attended New York City schools, they recited this psalm at the start of their school day. And so, the twenty-third psalm offers a familiar and comforting resonance at a difficult time.

The psalmist goes on to say, “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for Thou art with me.” Although biblical scholars struggle with the true meaning of the Hebrew “gay tzel mavet—the valley of the shadow of death” these words are why the psalm is associated with death and why reading it punctuates our mourning rituals.

We walk through the valley of the shadow of death. We walk through. The psalm offers hope that we will make it through what seems like an impossible and insurmountable journey. There is hope that this overwhelming and enveloping shadow of death will not follow us beyond those first days and initial weeks. We wonder will this shadow accompany us for the remainder of our lives. Will we ever emerge through the valley? Is there even another side?

That walk through the valley is of an indeterminant length. It differs for every mourner. It differs for every death that touches us. At first it feels immeasurably long; it appears impossible to traverse. We imagine it will forever trap us. And then, over time, the valley’s length begins to feel manageable. It is not that we see its conclusion.

The shadow continues. The pain, and the heartache, do not go away. We do not really emerge on the other side of the valley. That is a tantalizing myth. It is just that over time the walk seems less lengthy. The shadow appears to no longer to obscure our vision. It no longer feels like the shadow envelopes every step. Our walk becomes less strenuous.

We begin to realize we are not walking alone. The psalmist reminds us that we are accompanied. God guides us as a shepherd. Friends walk with us. The community embraces us. The walk through the valley is shared. And for that reason, and that reason alone, its length no longer appears as consequential as it once did. Its enormity no longer feels as daunting.

We embrace the walk.

We marvel at the glimmering lights of memory. They appear to brighten the shadow.

We take to heart the memories.

And we continue the walk through the valley.

We gained inspiration for this year’s ritual of placing memory stones from Peter Gabriel’s “Playing for Time.”