Called to Remember

When I get to these words in the Rosh Hashanah prayers, my hands begin to tremble. There is no forgetting before Your throne of glory . . . The words haunt me.

Because there are things I want to forget. Like the face of the seventeen-year-old boy I brought in that Simchat Torah night, his palms spread wide, as if gesturing: Why? Why this bitter end? His mouth opened in agony—the agony of his last moments of life. I want to forget how I had to gently bring his hands together and close his eyes to place him in the bag. I pray for this moment and many others like it to disappear from my memory. But they are there. Always there.

The prayer tells us that G-d remembers everything. Even what we want to forget. Even what we try to suppress. And I ask myself: Why? Why remember these terribly wounding moments? Why not let them go?

But as I continue standing there on Rosh Hashanah with this young boy in my mind, something shifts. These memories, I realize, are not meant to punish me. For each time I recall the face of this child and so many others, I am reminded of my purpose—of why I am here and why I do what I do. 

“And there is nothing hidden from Your eyes.” These words also haunt me. There are moments when I struggle with Him, when I get angry with Him, when I ask questions that maybe I shouldn’t ask. There are moments when I want to quit, to run away, to let someone else do this job.

But then I come to realize that this anger, this doubt, this urge to flee–it’s all part of my journey. I’m not meant to behave robotically. I’m permitted my humanity— to feel, to suffer, to struggle. It’s more than okay. It’s essential.

I return to my work at school after the holiday. Something has changed in me. I no longer try to divert the unspeakable memories. I let them be. I let them shape me. They have become my most important teachers. In every encounter—whether with a student or a challenge—these awful memories guide me, teaching me the nuanced touch needed to navigate gently. They teach me how to be a better person, a better educator, a better Jew. 

And maybe that’s what the words of this prayer want to tell me. The pain will not go away, but the memories will remain as a quiet witness—reminding me that this is a holy calling. And so with reverence I strive to meet it with all I am, to offer nothing less than my very best.

This article appears in the Autumn/Winter 2025 issue of Lubavitch International, to subscribe to the magazine, click here.