How was Shabbat? It hurt.
It hurt because I received only one blessing instead of two.
It hurt because I had to set up Mom's candles.
It hurt because one of our ten candles (one for each family member) was accidentally blown out by the wind.
It hurt because Mom chose the melody for "Shalom Aleichem," not Dad.
It hurt because when we sang "Eishet Chayil," Mom couldn't stop crying and we all choked up, barely able to sing.
It hurt because Elishiv refused to start eating until we set a place for Dad.
It hurt because Yehuda made kiddush and cut the challah.
It hurt because in Grace After Meals we only said "my mother, my teacher, the mistress of this house" and not "my father, my teacher, the master of this house."
It hurt because when we sang Shabbat songs - Dad's voice was missing.
It hurt because Mom didn't correct Dad about which key he chose to sing in.
But it was also powerful. Comforting. Peaceful.
Powerful because 500 people came for Oneg Shabbat and 1,000 for Melave Malka.
Comforting because I'm surrounded by so many(!) people who love me and want what's best for me.
Peaceful because I finally talked to friends again.
Powerful because the three minutes of silence during the Torah speech in synagogue pierced my heart with pride for my father.
Comforting because my mother is simply amazing.
Peaceful because my uncles are so funny.
The presence and absence intertwined:
It hurt because we were happy while in mourning.
It hurt because in synagogue, everyone looked at us at some point.
It hurt because they dedicated moments of complete silence in Dad's honor.
It hurt because we were the only ones saying Kaddish in the women's section.
Yet through it all:
Powerful because the words of Kaddish are strong.
Comforting because I could see in our albums what a good father I had.
Peaceful because I finally felt like a normal girl again, sitting in a regular chair, taking a shower before Shabbat.
Powerful because we were mourning, but with joy.
Comforting because it turns out so many people loved Dad.
Peaceful because Dad is my Dad.
As the rain poured outside, matching the tears from a week ago when the battle began where Dad fell, I realized something profound: Yes, there is pain in what's missing. But there is more presence than absence. Look how much good remains.
