Recipes for a Sacred Life: True Stories and a Few Miracles Rivvy Neshama (best short books to read .TXT) 📖

“It’s funny,” Ellie said. “All my life I’d been looking for someone who’d really listen and understand me, and all that time that someone was inside me. I don’t know if it’s God or me or my higher self. But you know what? It doesn’t matter.”

So I tried it too, and sometimes I hear the answer clearly and feel touched by spirit. Other times, I hear nothing at all, yet still feel touched by spirit. Which reminds me of the Christian who told his pastor, “I pray and pray, but I don’t get an answer.”

The pastor replied, “Your prayer is your answer. It’s that very longing within you that connects you to the divine.”

Reb Zalman taught me to talk to God. Ellie taught me to listen. But most of all what I’ve learned is this: Prayer is a way to be with God. It’s the path I was searching for long ago, with a few million others who were looking for light.

BIRTH, MARRIAGE, AND DEATH

“So,” Mom asked me, “are you done with your book?”

“Almost,” I said. “Just a few things to cover.”

“Like what?”

“Like birth, marriage, and death.”

Mom laughed, but I didn’t.

Aargh! Three weighty topics. Too much to write. And that’s why I kept putting it off.

Then I thought, Why not lump them together? I know, kind of cheap. But really, birth, marriage, and death are so sacred, what more can I say? Only this: Make each ritual truly yours.

When our friends Lori and Tom asked me to marry them (Colorado being one of those “whatever” states), I began to read up on weddings in different cultures. What I learned is this: They all follow a template, like a symphony in four movements. And it’s that way, too, with ceremonies for baby naming or honoring the dead: Each has its own rhythm, purpose, and form, ripe with rituals that have lasted forever.

Rituals are like ladders: They can take you to a higher place. If you feel aligned with them, they will lend you their light, or you can alter them to make them your own. You do this by finding your way, your words, right from the heart. When that happens, a window opens, and everyone present is touched with grace.

I felt that grace at the naming ceremony for Tony and Cindy’s son Brendan, our first grandchild, when friends and family sat around him and blessed him, while Cindy’s uncle played on the piano a piece he had written in Brendan’s honor.

I felt it too when John and I got married and the shaman who helped us write the ceremony had everyone present say together, “John and Rivvy, we now pronounce you husband and wife.”

And I felt it at our friend Sara S.’s deathbed, when several of us gathered, lightly put our hands on her, and softly sang the lullaby “Angels watching over me, my Lord.”

That same feeling was present at the funeral for Mom’s late-in-life partner Len. After the burial, those closest to Len drove to his daughter Karen’s house for lunch. At some point, the young rabbi asked us to form a circle with our chairs and then share, if we wished, stories about Len. Some of the stories made me laugh, some made me cry, and for the first time I thought, Now I know Len.

I felt grace again when Elise was in labor with Eli, her firstborn, and Joe (her husband) and I (her mom) stood by her bedside, counting through contractions and holding cool cloths on her forehead—even though she had initially claimed, “I might want my mom there, or I might want my husband there, but there’s no way I can handle both of you at once!” I, too, had worried about how it would feel. But what I felt was grace.

I felt it once more when John’s mum was dying and we flew to England to be with her. In the hospital by her bedside, I didn’t know what to say. Then John started talking about the chocolate sponge pudding Mum made when he was young, planting beans in their garden, and her summer frock with pink flowers . . . and that got her remembering too and saying, “We had some happy times, didn’t we, dear?”

When we got home, after Mum died, we made an altar on our mantle, the way the Mexicans do on their Day of the Dead, and the way our friend Sarah does each year on the anniversary of her father’s death. We placed Mum’s picture in the center, along with roses, a candle, and chocolates, the kind she liked. Then we added ceramic miniatures of flowers, a lamb, and a watering can—things that felt like England and gardening and reminded us of Mum. And when we lit the candle, it all came alive, with an aura reflecting her spirit and life.

In truth, I feel grace at all weddings, births, and deaths. It’s more than the words or the rituals. It’s simply the essence of love.

So yes, Mom, the book is done.

Well, almost.

PICTURES AND WORDS

It was a time of slowness. John and I were building our house, or rather, beseeching the contractor to show up and get it built. And back in Philadelphia, my father was slowly dying. Each afternoon after work, I’d sit in the meadow in front of the slowly rising house, watch the sun go down, and think about Dad.

My dad and I never spoke much about feelings. In fact, we hardly spoke at all. He was from that generation of fathers who worked hard, came home for dinner, and let the mother do the talking. But I wanted to tell him before he died how much I loved him. I didn’t know how much until he got sick. In my adolescence, we had a rough time, with lots of yelling and fights. I wasn’t shy expressing my anger, and now I needed to express my love.

When I thought about that love, it came to