Repaying a debt

 So far on this trip to Israel, the place we have visited the most often isn't the beach or a cafe or an archeological site but the Central Bus Station in Ashkelon. You can see it here in the top image. It reminds me of the old Trailways station in downtown Boston but with far less glamour. If you spent any time in the Trailways bus station in Boston in the 1970s you would remember that it was a pretty grubby place populated with snoozing rummies. 

To be fair the Ashkelon bus terminal is soon being replaced by a spiffier new one. But until then the long rectangular building that is made out of crumbling reinforced concrete with a stucco coating brings to mind the gritty reality of 1970s bus stations. 

In some ways the Ashkelon bus station is better than the Trailways station of my youth. The station houses a couple of shawarma and felafel stands. There is a candy stand and a shop that sells women's clothing. Best of all  it houses a small Russian supermarket. 

Today we went to the bus station because we were on our way to Jerusalem. The father of a dear friend Kobi died on the first day of Sukkot. Kobi's father lived in Jerusalem. The funeral took place yesterday. Shiva can't take place during a holiday like Sukkot. Our friend was in that weird limbo between the funeral and the delayed Shiva. 

After passing through farm lad an industrial zones the view changed to hills that looked like the background of every biblical story. 

We went to be with our friend and to listen to him talk about his father. During our conversation my friend mentioned that he hadn't understood before how much it means to have someone show up or extend themselves during the time of grief.

I then told my friend how difficult it was to be away from my community during my father's Shiva. When my mother died I had planned to do part of the Shiva in Boston and then to come home to New York for the remainder of the Shiva. The year my mother died was an insanely snowy winter. My mother's burial had to be delayed for two days because the cemetery workers had to hand dig paths from the cemetery road to each grave for each and every funeral and the task was so time consuming that funerals just had to get delayed.

Traditionally on Friday nights mourners sit outside of the service during the beautiful singing of Psalms and poetry during the Kabbalat Shabbat service. After the singing of Lecha Dodi, a poem that compares the Sabbath to a bride, the synagogue doors are opened and mourners are escorted into the service as the congregation recites a little line about being comforted among the mourners of Israel.

I really wanted to experience that ritual welcome in my community. So on the Friday morning if my mother's Shiva my husband and I got on the bus back to New York. It was early in March and it was snowing. The Mass Pike was completely white with snow. The bus had to crawl to be sure that we didn't crash.. Throughout the ride I kept hoping that perhaps I coul still make it home in time to get to Friday night services. At some point in Connecticut I realized that there was no way that I would make it home in time. The sky darkened. Shabbat had begun and I was far from home, far from Kabbalat Shabbat, and far from that lovely bit of ritual comfort. 

I got sadder and sadder realizing that I wouldn't get what I wanted and needed. My husband and I arrived to our building just as our Rabbi, who lives in our building was returning home from Friday night services.

When I arrived into our apartment dinner was waiting for us, made by community members. I no longer remember most of what we ate that night with the exception of one dish, Kobi's excellent Yerushalmi kugel. He knew that I loved it. Of course I was sad that my mother had died. I had been comforting myself during the Boston segment of the Shiva with the expectation of that little ritual welcome during Friday night services. I felt truly bereft.

Kobi's kugel felt like a replacement for the little recitation of text to welcome mourners back to the community. I was so grateful that he remembered how much I loved his kugel and that he made it for me when I needed it so much.

On our way back to the Jerusalem Central bus station 

Kobi hadn't understood when he made that  kugel for me, or when he showed up and a Shiva minyan just  how huge that felt for the mourners he was helping. 

So of course we took the bus from Ashkelon to Jerusalem.  We owed Kobi for that kugel.