On March 14th of last year, my brother Steve Mendelson died after a short bout of renal cancer. Steve was the middle brother of what my father lovingly referred to as My Three Sons, which, for those of you too young to remember, was a television show in the 1960s. Steve and his wife have three beautiful daughters, all grown and out on their own, doing amazing things. My other brother, Alan, the oldest, also has three daughters who are also now adults doing amazing things.
Steve and I were not as close as I imagine some brothers are, but we were not estranged and there was no doubt that we cared for and respected each other. In most ways, we could not have been more different. He was a better student, I got into more trouble, he liked playing or watching every sport under the sun, and to this day I have no interest in sports of any kind. He lived in Northbrook, which allowed us to see each other pretty regularly, especially when the kids were little, and my parents were alive. He was always supportive of his gay brother and the boyfriends I brought around throughout the years. And I know he was fond of my now husband Scott. Steve was the epitome of a mensch. His wife and children were the center of his life. I never heard him speak ill of anyone, and he accepted everyone for who they were. After a few years of working in the corporate world with his accounting degree, he left his corporate job to be a teacher at an inner-city college. It was a job that he did for 30 years.
Unfortunately, once we hit a certain age, we start to get used to going to funerals. Grandparents, aunts and uncles, and parents. But the death of a brother seems different. We know our siblings – and our siblings know us – differently than anyone else. Our shared memories and unspoken understandings create a special bond.
I suppose because we aged together, I did not sense his age, though Steve was only 64 when he died. Far too young. That comes from his brother, who is about to turn 63. I don’t know if I have fully realized the effects of his passing. Even as I was writing these comments for today, I found myself writing about him in the present tense. Perhaps that means he will always be present for me as the holidays, birthdays, and other milestones come and go.
This may sound odd, but the ritual of funerals is one of the ways that I am reminded that I am a Jew. I have never questioned being Jewish. I was raised in a secular but no doubt Jewish home in Highland Park. While we only went to synagogue twice a year for the High Holidays, we celebrated major events with brisket, kreplach, and kugel; and my 23 and Me profile says I am over 99% Ashkenazi. I am a Jew.
But I am not sure I fully understand what being Jewish means to me. Up until last October, I had not been in a synagogue except for funerals, and until last weekend, the last time I wore my tallis was 49 years ago at my bar mitzvah. I had considered joining a synagogue occasionally throughout the years, but even then, I was unsure what for. Then, October 7th happened, which felt like a calling for me to reconnect to a Jewish community. Perhaps community was what I was seeking the whole time. Scott, who is not Jewish, supported my setting out on this journey.
As with most things, my search for a synagogue started online. I was raised in a reform congregation, so that is where my search began, hoping to find something that felt familiar. I looked for a congregation nearby that presented itself as welcoming LGBTQ and interfaith families and shared some of my values. Then I stumbled across this thing called reconstructionism and this place called Jewish Reconstructionist Congregation. After doing some reading about reconstructionism and JRC, I told Scott that I had learned about this take on Judaism that was different and new to me, and the synagogue I wanted to check out was that cool building on Dodge Avenue that we had driven by so many times.
My first contact with JRC was with Micky. I had no idea how this all worked, especially after October 7th. Do you have to be a member to go to services? Can we just show up? Let me say that I cannot imagine a better spokesperson and one-person welcome committee than Micky Baer, who has made Scott and me feel welcome from day one. That was a year ago, and our time at JRC has been a wonderful, meaningful experience ever since.
Rabbi Rachel and Cantor Howard warmly greeted us at our first Shabbat service, as they do whenever we see them. I do not read Hebrew, and, honestly, sometimes I barely get through the transliterations. I think it was at that first service that the Rabbi invited people to sing along if they wanted to, but that humming along or just listening was fine, too. As Hannah mentioned here last week, I, too, sometimes just let the sounds of the service wash over me as I read the translations or commentaries below the line in the prayer book.
At some point, Micky told me that she was surprised at how quickly Scott and I jumped into exploring all that JRC had to offer. Latke fest, potlucks, Kallah, meditation and Torah study groups, and probably attending more services in one year than I had throughout my life up to this point.
But rather than jumping in, I think it was more of being pulled in. Pulled in by this incredible community. Pulled in to feel welcomed by the friendly members of this congregation. Pulled into a new experience of being Jewish. JRC is becoming a family to us. We miss it when we cannot make a service. We miss people when we do not see them at services, and people ask us where we were if we missed a Friday night.
Last spring, I found special meaning and connection during the portion of the Shabbat service when we pray for healing, both when I was hopeful for Steve’s recovery and then when I was aware that recovery was not to come. That sense of community and shared experience with others who were also dealing with illness in their lives, and with people just raising their voices to support people they didn’t even know. Following Steve’s death, I learned that some people made donations to JRC in his memory, and many people offered me kind words or a hug to support me in my loss.
I am still learning about what being Jewish means to me, and I admit it is complicated as I come to realize that my religious beliefs do not always connect with my political beliefs. But I have learned that at JRC, that is ok, and it is ok that those feelings may change. We do not have to have answers or even know the questions when we come through the doors. It is ok just to hum along.
This past year has reminded me of the importance of maintaining connections, not just to remember those we have lost but to celebrate the mysteries of life that continue around us and the powerful experiences that can come from being part of a community.
Scott and I wish you a year of good health, peace, and love.
Written by JRC member Dan Mendelson