Ancestor worship

Today I went to a vaguely church-ish event, which was about, from what I understood, honoring your ancestors.

I have great respect and fondness for my ancestors. Specifically, those from two generations back, all of who are gone, regardless of how much time I spent with them (but not enough, never enough, I know now, even as I repeat the same mistakes with those still here). Those who were born, lived, and died in a different world, a world which I shared briefly with them and already has the warm, misty feeling of "the good old days."

I only met one of my great-grandparents, and my only memories of her are memories of photographs, not of an actual person.

If you asked me, "What did she look like?"

"An old woman in a chair," is all I can tell you.

Of these people, three generations and more removed, I know only the barest of details, names and a two-sentence sketch of their lives.

I do not know them. They are ghosts. They were beloved by people I love. And yet to me, they do not exist.

What is there to venerate of these anonymous ghosts, these decaying black-and-white images of the past?

I can only bring myself to respect the ones I knew, the ones who I have, belatedly, reached some understanding of, if not from my personal experience, but from recognizing the ripples still spreading throughout the lives of those who remain.

Though I do not share the religion of either side of the family, a dream I had a couple of months ago really shook me.

I was at a table with my family and a close friend, R.

R mentioned that he had lit a menorah (the Hanukkah candelabra-like thing) at home, and I ridiculed him for it, since, well, he's not Jewish. And nor am I, and I have no recollection of my father participating in any sort of ritual of his own volition.

Caught up in ridiculing R, I finally realized that the table was lit by a plethora of tea candles, and my father was lighting one from the centerpiece, which was a menorah. (To get an idea of just how Jewish I am, in the dream it was the last day of Hanukkah, but instead of lighting a candle each day, they were snuffing out a candle each day. Oops.)

I gradually became aware of the others seated at the table. My father's parents, one of his aunts, and a good friend and neighbor of my grandparents. Not an exhaustive list, but a fair quantity of those from my father's family who I had grudgingly spent a lot of time with in my childhood. My cynical laughter snuffed out.

Berry murderous.

In the sudden silence, I began to cry. I picked up my own candle and shakily lit it, sobbing, and repeating the word, "sorry," whenever I could catch a breath. They never said a word, only looked at me all the while.

And then I woke up, feeling bereft and unsure of what I was apologizing for. I'm certain it wasn't for the Hanukkah gaffe, none of them were particularly attached to ceremony, that I recall. I think I was trying to apologize for only knowing them as a child, not as a person.

I'm afraid that if I have children, they'll relate to their grandparents in the same way.