Every June, my synagogue reminds me of the upcoming anniversary of my mother’s passing. “We would like to remind you that the yahrzeit of your mother, Liebe Leah bat Dov Ber, is this month,” the email reads. I make a donation to the shul in honor of my mother’s memory, and the rabbi recites a special memorial prayer for her during services.
Twenty years ago, my mother passed away only two weeks before our eldest son’s bar mitzvah. When the shiva week was over, I tried to focus on floral arrangements and wrote out place cards for the luncheon. Mourning and celebration collided during the surreal event, but my mother’s presence in the room was palpable. Some might say she had one of the best seats in the house.
Six years ago, that bar mitzvah boy, Avi, was a married man whose wife had just given birth to their second daughter. When Avi was called to the Torah during the shacharis service to name her, I stood with bated breath, listening eagerly for the name. When I heard him announce “Liebe Leah,” my heart and tears overflowed. I had become a bridge between my mother Liebe Leah and her great-granddaughter Liebe Leah. And my mother had been named in memory of her own great-grandmother. I cannot describe how richly I felt a sense of connectivity and continuity being passed down from generation to generation.
Each of our eight grandchildren carries a first name, a middle name, or sometimes both, in remembrance of their great-grandparents, great-great grandparents, great-great aunts or uncles. Several were Holocaust survivors: Shlomo, born in Salonika who was hidden in a Greek church during the war; Miriam, who spent her infancy in Siberia and whose family remained on the run; Yitzhak, who sailed at age six with his parents from Germany in 1938—a late date to escape from the Nazis—and lived a lonely, poor childhood in Washington Heights, New York.
Since the arrival of our grandchildren, the yahrtzeits of my mother, father and maternal grandfather have lost some of the sting of loss. Now in my mind’s eye I see not only the face of my beautiful mother, but also of beautiful six-year-old Liebe, an exuberant child, natural gymnast, tireless reader, and sneaker of sweets. I see two delightful boys who share the name Yaakov, after my father—one a skinny redhead who is fascinated with all things related to fire trucks and construction workers, and a sixteen-month-old with wild dark curls, huge eyes and an equally huge smile. My grandfather Dov Ber has a namesake in twenty-one-month-old Dovi, a sweet-natured toddler.
Since the arrival of our grandchildren, the yahrtzeits of my mother, father and maternal grandfather have lost some of the sting of loss.
That sense of connectivity and continuity between my past and my future is a deeply satisfying reward of having grandchildren. But it is one that a majority of my relatives and acquaintances who are not religiously observant do not share. Our married children’s decisions to begin their families when they are still young is typical among Orthodox Jews but a real outlier in the secular society.
The U.S. fertility rate has been dropping precipitously for years and is now the lowest it’s been in 40 years, according to the Centers for Disease Control—far below replacement rates. Marriage rates have fallen also: the average age for brides in the U.S. is now 28; for men, over 30.
While young adults are in no hurry to start families, some of their parents are getting impatient. “I can’t wait to have a grandchild!” a neighbor in her mid-60s exclaimed to me one day when she saw me pushing a stroller. I wished that for her, too. When her 40-something son and his wife finally had a child, she rushed over to tell me the news, glowing with happiness.
Grandchildren are a blessing in every way. They are a vote of confidence in the future, made by our grown children who have chosen to maintain a commitment to the integrated Jewish living that we tried to model for them. My job as a Nana is time-consuming but great fun: I get to rock babies, read stories, build towers, and spoil them with simple pleasures—a new jump rope, puzzle, or trip for ice cream. I have more patience and certainly greater perspective now as a grandparent than I had as the harried mom of four kids all close in age.
I enjoy this role immensely, but I also hope I am building a foundation for the future. When they are teens or young adults, whether eager to share good news or struggling with problems or questions, I hope they’ll see me as a trusted confidant and friend. I had this type of relationship with one of my own grandmothers and it was a precious gift.
While I would be thrilled to have grandchildren regardless of their names, calling out the names of my late parents and grandparents and having bright little faces turn to me deepens my sense of feeling blessed by my role as a bridge between generations. I hope and pray that God will grant me many years to continue building my active-Nana relationship with them.
Judy Gruen is a writer and editor. Her books include “The Skeptic and the Rabbi: Falling in Love with Faith.”
