Sermons

Yizkor 2009

Not long ago I re-read my folder marked "High Holy Day Yizkor Sermons." Several themes repeated themselves. There were my stays in Jerusalem, wonderful excursions in the Adirondacks on my canoe named "Adventurer," a battered orange and white canoe. Who ever heard of an orange and white canoe? But, in recent years one image weaves its hues over the words of my Yizkor sermons.

It is Provence. A field of lavender in the rustic countryside. A stocky Frenchman named Larre, with a grizzly beard, as rough as the earth on which he labored. There he is, Larre, attired in faded brown overalls, suspenders stretched by time and a stained beret that, at a time long since passed, was deep red.

Larre. Approaching me through the rows of lavender, plodding across the dry ground, a makeshift sack stuffed with lavender tied over one shoulder, stray sprigs sticking out of the open spaces. His truffle hunting dogs Maya and Fan Fan race along his side but Larre plods onwards. When he comes closer he recognizes me. "Ah, the American!" And a smile highlights a leathered face, wrinkled by the sun and the brutal winds of the mistral. "The American." For that is my name in the lavender fields of Larre.

We kiss. Air kisses. A specialty of the French. In Provence, three kisses. Not two, three, on either side of the cheeks. There is little time for conversation. On the other hand, who needs time since I do not speak French. Within moments Larre has placed his lavender on the edge of the field where piles burgeon under wooden pitchforks and then he fashions a burlap sack which he lays over my shoulder. Handing me a newly sharpened scythe, he sends me into the field. For it is harvest time and I have come to help.

My first year as a reaper of lavender was almost my last. Lacking the rhythm of the scythe I cut my knuckles rather than the plants but eventually I mastered the rhythm, "swish, swish," and joined the generations of those who harvest lavender. The remnants of those summers brighten the rooms wherever I live. There are bouquets, boxes filled with dried lavender and whenever I open the box the fragrance of the lavender takes me back. To a setting I love.

This year I did not travel to Provence but late in July, the time when I would normally vacation in the area near Carpentras and Avignon, I remembered; remembered one single summer. It was almost a decade ago. I had driven to Larre's fields at the time of harvest and parked at the promontory of Belvedere from which a clear view of Larre's lavender could be viewed. In all its magnificence. The air was permeated with the lush fragrance of the lavender floating over the countryside from the small refineries perched on hills.

I opened the car door, a Renault, anticipating my first glance of the purple fields. But the color was gone. The fields were brown. Row after row of brown stubs.

Despairing, I asked Larre, "What has happened? The lavender? Gone." He nodded. "An early year. We have finished the harvest. Perhaps you will come next year."

Then, as was his custom, he added, "And if not more of you then at least not less of you."

Saddened, I sought to revive my spirit and that was when I realized I was focusing only on that which was not there instead of the many seasons when the fields were rich and full. I was concentrating only on loss and closing my eyes I again pictured the field, alive, in full splendor, as it had been for so many summers; times in which I had been part of the beauty of the harvest. Yes, it was natural to regret what was not there but the magic of memory restored what had been there and would always be there. The harvest, in all its splendor, had come back to me --- a marvelous purple panorama flooding the mind. And, as I remembered, I knew that Provence would never leave me, even if I were not there. Provence, a stocky farmer named Larre, his rugged features emerging from symmetrical rows of lavender, a scythe, swinging forward, back, attuned to the passing of another season, resplendent in its glory and I would dwell on the time of the lavender harvest.

At this hour of Yizkor, as we meditate on the loss of loved ones, some in recent days, others in days long since gone, we harvest memories, recollections, of those we love who may have disappeared from the landscape of the years – yet never truly disappear for there is a miracle surrounding memory --- and it is this – memories never die. They may be reborn whenever we desire, partners as we move forward for who among us can linger in the lavender fields forever? The sprigs of the past are treasured but we plant for the future. So, as the Psalmist instructed, do not dwell in the valley of the shadow of death but walk through the valley, until you come out on the far side of the field of lavender.

Come. Come. Travel through the bright color of memory. Memory can never be shorn, never be cut away. Never. Come. Come. And may the journey bring comfort and consolation.