My first Yizkor 

“Whoever has two living parents, please come out of the dhul. Everyone else, please stay for Yizkor.”

I have used this sentence every time after I ended my Yizkor sermon. And then I would march straight out the door.

Except this Pesach.

I still said the same sentence, but this time, I stayed inside.

It was my first Yizkor.

Now that I think about it, it wasn’t really my first time staying inside for Yizkor. It had happened once before.

It was 1999. That year, I spent the High Holidays in Ufa, Russia. If you visit Ufa today, you’d be amazed to see a magnificent synagogue and a flourishing community led by a wonderful Chabad couple. But back then, there was very little.

My friend and I spent an entire month as “rabbis” of sorts. We were tasked with everything: renting a hall for services and inviting the community. We were the chazzan, the rav, and the community organizers.

And one more thing: we were the only ones who knew how to read Hebrew.

So when Yizkor came, I had to stay inside to lead it. I remember how strange it felt. I didn’t feel like I belonged. And as I was saying Yizkor, I was wondering who to say it for. I don’t really remember what I did in the end. Maybe I said it for the Holocaust victims or for fallen IDF soldiers. That was my first Yizkor.

But now, this was my first real Yizkor, not as someone who leads, but as someone who needs to be there.

And I wish I didn’t need to.

Before Yizkor, I spoke about the concept of memory.

We often hear the term “never forget,” but for me, not forgetting is not the same as remembering. Not forgetting comes from a place of fear: fear that we might lose the knowledge and the awareness. But remembering is a positive act.

I shared how I once met a woman who lost her husband at a young age. Their children were young, yet they spoke about their dad as if they knew him. I was deeply impressed and asked her how that happened.

“I always make sure to share memories, to speak about him constantly, so he is a part of their lives,” she said.

She was right. Memories are not just pieces of information. They are relationships. When we remember something, we connect to the subject of that memory.

Think about it: Judaism survived because of memories. Just a few days ago, we gathered at the seder table and shared the oldest memory that humanity has ever passed down: the story of how G-d took us out of Egypt. How did we survive as a nation? Because my parents told me this story, which they heard from their parents. And their parents heard it from my great-grandparents.

Memories are powerful. They can inspire us years after they happen.

I’ve seen it again and again. People who might show little interest in Judaism, yet when I ask them to share a story about their grandparents, their eyes light up. They talk about their bubbie’s gefilte fish, about their grandfather’s long, white beard, and about a great-grandfather who always made sure to go to shul.

And so, I concluded my sermon with this suggestion and request: share your memories. Don’t let them stay with you. Tell them to your children. Share them with your relatives. Write them in a book. Post them on social media. Send them to the Jewish Standard or the New Jersey Jewish News; maybe they will publish them.

But whatever you do, make it a priority. You never know how one memory can deeply inspire someone and make them a kinder, prouder, more connected Jew.

Mendy Kaminker is the rabbi of Chabad of Hackensack and an editorial member of Chabad.org. He looks forward to your comments at rabbi@chabadhackensack.com.