#el malei rachamim

[gnosticpriesthood]

This game is a prequel to Disciples of the Gun and introduces players to the world, lore and narrative style featured within. 

Both games are based in gritty, hard sci-fi. Disciples will feature  mechanics ranging from simple linear storytelling to relationships, combat, map navigation, puzzle solving, codices, dice-rolling, stats/levels, linguistics and math. 

If you're looking to casually drop-in to the setting of DOTG, El Malei is a good starting point. It should take about 5-10 minutes to complete and is largely a short story - gameplay mechanics are much more limited.  Be warned that El Malei deals with mature and difficult subject matter such as human trafficking, child abuse, domestic violence and drug addiction. If this type of content is upsetting to you, you should skip El Malei.

[pargolettasworld]

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Aa6H8QE66d0

Yizkor is a public memorial service.  In the Diaspora, we do it four times a year.  Yizkor happens during Yom Kippur, on Shmini Atzeret (as far as anyone has been able to tell me, this is one of the few legitimate reasons that Shmini Atzeret exists), on the last day of Pesach, and on the second day of Shavuot.  There are public memorial prayers, some opportunity for silent prayer, and the El Malei Rachamim will be sung.  Some people who aren’t mourning anyone that year might choose to leave the sanctuary during Yizkor -- it’s because of a superstition that you don’t want to draw the attention of the Angel of Death.

This is a relatively new piece that could be added to a Yizkor service, either in addition to the existing material, or as the opening of Yizkor, designed to guide the congregation into the purpose and the mood of this service.

[brandonjnelson]

Updates, updates, updates!

3/24/23 – finished work on El Malei Rachamim: A Holocaust Memorial for concert band 3/22/23 – finished the alto flute trio! Check it out! Continuing promising discussions for an alto flute concertino for this summer… 3/20/23 – engraved, posted to Sheetmusicplus.com, and uploaded a demo recording of Bizzarie di Varie Figure! 3/21/23 – finished work on Snow, falling, Scherzo, and Diptych! Also…

[keshetchai]

You started this off by being EXTREMELY condescending for no real reason.

Followed it up with a whole lot of words which suggest you have not actually read nor understood my responses within this thread or even like...what I am saying.

Then you brought up completely random unrelated examples and claimed the "vast majority of Jews," agree on this thing you're claiming.

In the notes in this thread there were at least two Orthodox Jewish folks who have been on jumblr for LITERAL YEARS agreeing with me, plus someone else saying their rabbi says "Rest in Peace," and other folks as well.

You're making an anecdotal claim based on what you think feels like the truth.

That's...certainly how you feel, but it's also not like, compelling evidence.

Also look, I am by no means fluent in Hebrew but:

That being impossible

It's literally not. It's not.

You and the person above you are literally just making things up and then condescending to me about it and it's truly baffling.

The previous person saying "there is no rest in death [in Judaism]." and arguing we don't have death/sleep analogies in Judaism is like - look I don't know their motive but they're just unequivocally and catastrophically wrong.

Here's the Shema before sleep at night in an Orthodox Korean Sacks Siddur (the edition for NCSY.)

This clearly references death as a form of sleep.

NOW FROM THIS SAME SIDDUR, PLEASE TAKE A LOOK AT THE MEMORIAL PRAYER FOR FALLEN ISRAELI SOLDIERS:

Here's the memorial service from my 1969 siddur avodat Israel, printed on Israel and bound with those pretty metal plates:

Here's the 2016 conservative movement's Siddur Lev Shalem memorial prayer, from the Yizkor section:

This is repeated by the way. The next page is for women. Then it provides several other variants, including an addition for martyrs and holocaust victims, and the English still says "Rest In Peace," so if nothing else, I can show that the whole conservative movement officially accepts the English use of "rest in peace," to memorialize Jews.

I can show that the Orthodox publisher Koren Sacks uses "rest in peace," to memorialize Jews. I can show some other Israeli publisher says: "repose in their resting place in peace," which like...means rest in peace.

I know Chabad translates with "rest in peace." I am, in fact, pretty confident that I can demonstrably prove multiple major Jewish publishers and movements all actively use "rest in peace," explicitly in prayer translations. Because I just did that.

I don't "feel" this is true. I took out three of my siddurim and went on the Chabad website and know it is factually provable. I've also been to a Yizkor service before and have read the siddur while there. I'm being extremely patient right now with your snide benevolence in deciding to agree I must be Jewish, because like, El Malei Rachamim is part of the Yizkor service which is recited four times a year (Yom Kippur, Sukkot, Passover, and Shavuot). It's also part of the Jewish funeral service. I'm not citing some obscure prayers.

It's okay if you don't know that, but hinting at the rude thing you aren't accusing me of isn't like, actually an improvement. You're just saying "oh well I'll deign to not accuse."

Anyways tl;Dr again:

Fact: Jews can and do use "rest in peace," currently, notably in our memorial Yizkor service and in prayer said at burial.

Fact: this translation using RIP is used by Chabad, Koren-Sacks writing for the OU's NCSY, and the Conservative moment. At minimum.

Opinion: it makes some Jews uncomfortable as it reminds them of Christianity.

My argument: it's okay to feel it is uncomfortable and to prefer and encourage other phrases. However, "rest in peace," language is absolutely (fact) used by Jews with regularity and it is not actually inappropriate. You can feel uncomfortable with that, but it's not true to say we don't say "rest in peace," in English.

Friendly PSA: when a Jewish person passes away, it's inappropriate to say "Rest in Peace" because that's a Christian phrase. While we have several phrases that are acceptable to say, the most common English phrase to say when a Jewish person dies is "May their memory be a blessing."

[jewishvirtuallibrary-blog]

A Jewish man, Moshe Mizrachi, weeps next to the grave of his mother, Mazal, during her funeral in the Old Cemetery of Safed, Israel; 1996. x 

Jewish law requires that the dead be buried within twenty-four hours after death and it is traditional for the funeral service and burial to be arranged promptly to pay respect for the dead and the family of the deceased.  A delay in the burial to allow for preparation of the body and coffin, the arrival of relatives, or for a Jewish holiday to pass are allowed, but this delay must not extend more than three days.

A mourner for one's parents, spouse, children and siblings customarily participates in the rite of k'riah, rending of graments, just prior to the funeral service. This consists of tearing a visible piece of clothing which is then worn throughout the seven-day period of shiva, except on Shabbat. Some people extend this custom to wear the torn clothing for all of sheloshim, the thirty days following burial.  A mourner is also exempt from performing all religious duties from the time of a loved one's death until the burial.

Most funeral services take place at the grave site or in a funeral home, followed by the burial of the body. The service often begins with the reciting of specific prayers, often psalms 23 and psalms 121. The core part of the funeral service is the eulogy, often given by a close friend or family member who can provide the deceased with their last sign of respect. The singing of El Malei Rachamim, a hymn that asks G-d to watch over the deceased and grant them peace, usually closes the service.

[ltkarma]

casual reminder that avi sat full shiva for her dad aged twelve and it was and still is the most emotionally painful week of her life. there was nothing to bury but his uniform and his ribbons - and yet she washed her hands so much they got raw. 

אֵל מָלֵא רַחֲמִים, שׁוֹכֵן בַּמְּרוֹמִים, הַמְצֵא מְנוּחָה נְכוֹנָה, עַל כַּנְפֵי הַשְּׁכִינָה, בְּמַעֲלוֹת קְדוֹשִׁים וּטְהוֹרִים, כְּזוֹהַר הָרָקִיעַ מַזְהִירִים, אֶת נִשְׁמַת (פלוני בן פלוני) שֶׁהָלַךְ לְעוֹלָמוֹ, בַּעֲבוּר שֶׁנָּדְבוּ צְדָקָה בְּעַד הַזְכָּרַת נִשְׁמָתוֹ, בְּגַן עֵדֶן תְּהֵא מְנוּחָתוֹ. לָכֵן בַּעַל הָרַחֲמִים יַסְתִּירֵהוּ בְּסֵתֶר כְּנָפָיו לְעוֹלָמִים, וְיִצְרֹר בִּצְרוֹר הַחַיִּים אֶת נִשְׁמָתוֹ. יְיָ הוּא נַחֲלָתוֹ, וְיָנוּחַ בְּשָׁלוֹם עַל מִשְׁכָּבוֹ, וְנֹאמַר אָמֵן

[mioritic]

Maurycy Minkowski, “El Malei Rachamim”, 1922 (detail)

[beerecordings]

The Blue Light

Chapter 20 of My Brother’s Keeper (Part 1 l Previous l Next)

Very excited for next chapter. I think you’ll like it. Thank you to all of you still reading <3333 My taglist is a separate post. If you’d like to be added or removed, or if you’ve been removed and want to be put back on, just let me know!

Edit: oh my gosh @garlicgladiator made the most perfect piece for this chapter!!!! you should totally check it out once you’ve read, the mood is so perfect and cool!!!! here look at this beauty!!

Grief howls through the house like a cold breeze, and they’re all approaching their breaking points. With Henrik and Chase breaking down and Jackie increasingly ill, Jameson finds his opportunity to run and summons his courage. He can’t stay here. He can’t. He can’t. Can he?

At eleven-thirty that night, Henrik has not yet asked him if he's ready to get some sleep.

He always says it exactly like that – “ready to get some sleep, Jameson?” – and with the same warmth in his voice, the same quiet warmth.

Jameson sits on the couch in the living room, waiting to be invited up to his room for the night. There's safety with Henrik beside him. Or at least he feels like there is. And feeling safe is so rare, so rare.

He nibbles on a packet of crackers, tucked up against the couch, pillows arranged comfortingly around him. Is Henrik mad, maybe? Or just grief-stricken, to hear the news of his brother's death? Jameson can still hear the echo of his screams throughout the house, but they had ended some hours ago. Was he still upset?

Maybe he should go check on him. No, he shouldn't, what if he's angry? Did he do something wrong? He must have done something wrong. Just like when Anti wouldn't come to sleep with him for nights on end. If he was better, someone would be willing to lie next to him, but he's done something wrong, and now Henrik doesn't want him. No, that couldn't be it, could it? Should he go check?

Caught in his own insecurity, he gets up and hovers at the bottom of the stairs til midnight comes, wringing his hands, wishing Henrik would come invite him to bed.

“Ready to get some sleep, Jameson?”

So warm, all safe, why doesn't he come?

He creeps up the stairs, anxious as a mouse.

Before he even reaches Henrik's room, he is greeted by loud heavy snoring, and he pauses at the top of the stairs, staring through a crack in Chase's door. Vaguely, he can make out his brother's shape, curled very tight in his bed, wrapped around pillows and blankets, snoring.

There's a bottle on his dresser. Jameson can smell the alcohol he was named after from here. He recoils slightly, blinking. He's never seen Chase so drunk.

This is what happens when you love people.

They die, or leave, or break your heart otherwise, and then you're just.... left. With the pain. Like this. Pathetic.

That's what Anti told him. Don't truck with loving anybody, Jameson. Just stick with me. Do what I say and nobody will need to break your fragile little heart.

Chase looks so fragile.

A low groaning gasp cuts through his reflections and he becomes aware of a soft murmuring across the hall. His hairs stand on edge as he recognizes the sound of Henrik in pain; he almost rushes forward, but a second voice pauses him –

“Sh, sh,” whispers Jackie, clutching Henrik tighter to his chest. “Sh, sh, it's okay.”

“No, no,” Henrik whispers in reply.

Stepping back to the other side of the hall, Jameson can see them through the open door.

Henrik's eyes are so blank, his face so full of fear, Jameson wishes the door was closed.

He is rocking his way through hysterics, stiff with terror and flashback, ghostly in the white glow of the nightlight beside the bed he has shared with Jameson for days. Jackie is clutching him tight, trying to hold his nails away from his wrists. Henrik stares forward like a corpse, unseeing.

“No, no, he will have tortured him, as he tortured me,” he groans, shoving his head back against Jackie's collarbone.

“No, Schneep, no, no, it was fast, okay, I promise, it was fast...”

“I never... I never told him... I loved him, will you tell him when you see him? Where is he, why is he gone, my brother, killed...”

“Schneep, please, please, it's going to be okay.”

A low sob chokes its way out of his throat. Jameson sinks back into the shadows. Tears are trickling down his own face.

This is what he gets, for falling in love with Henrik. With Chase. Anti was right. Love is just pain standing in wait.

“My big brother,” cries Henrik. “My big brother, where is he gone? Bruder, bruder, katze, God!”

His voice rises in pitch and then shatters, shatters down the middle, and suddenly he is screaming again, wailing for the whole house to hear, though it does not even rouse Chase, and Jackie can barely hold him through the heat of his own fever; Jameson turns to run, turns to flee, turns in fear –

“Marvin, Marvin, my brother! Anti took him from me! Anti stole my brother away! I can take no more of this!”

“Schneep, Schneep, please, please, oh, it's okay, it's okay – ” Jackie dissolves into sobbing, holding him tight, as tight as he can; he tries to summon his power but nothing comes; the nightlight flickers weakly.

“Why is this happening? Why can't I sleep? Why won't you leave me alone to die? Sh'ma, sh'ma, Yisra'eil – I can bear no more, I can take no more – El maley rachamim shochen bam'romim – ”

Darting downstairs, the whole house seems to groan with despair around him, illuminated by a shuddering blue light, the source of which he does not know. Jameson reaches the room at the end of the hall, the room meant to be his own, still bare with misuse, smelling of plaster and wood. Trembling too hard to run, he collapses on the bed and hides himself under the covers, holding the blankets so close they threaten to suffocate him, too close, too close, too heavy.

He never should have come to this place. Muffled sobs echo through the vents.

Tonight, he must run.

The blue light, as it turns out, comes from the room across from Jackie's.

Jameson stands at the end of the hallway, staring at the blue-lit door.

He rubs his sweaty hands on the pair of Chase's jeans he's been wearing and tugs at the collar of Henrik's button-up. Clutching at the arms of the backpack thrown over his shoulders, he shuffles in place and tries to convince himself to go.

It's easy. It's easy. He's run with Anti before. He'll just grab the shoes by the door, slip them on, slip out.... go wherever the wind takes him, snacking on the crackers and fruit in his backpack... cold, yes, but he has Chase's jacket, he'll be okay...

There's something he's supposed to find, isn't there? Something Anti wanted, something to redeem himself? Why can't he remember? He'll just have to go and just – just search.

Search for something he can't even put words to.

He wipes at tears on his face.

Come on, Dapper! Come on, we've had worse, we can do this! If we don't get back to Anti, we'll be in such terrible trouble. Can't stay here.

He breathes in deep and glances back at the room that was supposed to be his own. Pallid in the blue light, he takes a moment to regret the things he does not have here – memories, belongings, fondness. Oh, if only Anti had never stolen him away, if only he had any choice...

Another voice in his head – he is used to it being softer than the others, but today it is cold, unyielding: You have a choice. You choose to go. Let us lie to ourselves no longer.

Shaking his head, he grits his teeth tight and he steps forward. The steak knives he stole out of the kitchen clink in his backpack and he grimaces, taking the pack off to clutch it to his chest instead, keeping the silver quiet.

He slinks down the hall.

Really, the blue light is strange.

He's never seen it before. It lights the ceiling of the hallway a clean blue. Jameson can hear owls cooing gently in the trees outside.

And then –

Scritch scritch scritch scritch.

Startled, Jameson stops short between Jackie's room and the blue-lit room, staring left to the room he's never entered before. He was always too scared to risk exploring too close to the Mask's room.

But now....

Scritch scritch scritch scritch scritch.

Anti always called him a curious little cat.

Jameson pushes into the strange room.

It is the smell of magnolia that strikes him first.

Magnolia and dust and copper, one-third like Anti used to smell.

“Meow,” howls Athanasius at the window, standing up and scratching at the screen. “Mowow!”

Stunned, Jameson takes another step towards him, and his feet hit a plush rug on the floor. The blue light is shining from a soft paper lantern attached to the wall by the light switch, glowing quietly in the darkness. A bookshelf with one broken board leaving fallen books in the corner stands tall and patient next to the window.

The walls are hand-painted with vines and flowers. Three candles are suspended in an endless dripping on the bedside drawer. There are still clothes strewn on the floor from the last time the room's owner was here – a nice white shirt and black pants, sweats and a jumper and glasses on the bed. A small book is open on the floor beside the bookcase.

“Meow!” Athanasius insists, irritated now, and Jameson hurries across the room to help him, pushing open the pane of the window and then the screen, letting the little grey cat leap into the room and curl around his legs once, twice, purring loudly. Jameson reaches down to scratch his head, his eyes drifting to the open book on the floor.

Don't go far off, not even for a day, read the pages. Because – because – I don't know how to say it.

Athanasius meows as the fingers draw away from his head. Jameson is sinking towards the ground, staring at the little dark words, trying to make out what they say.

A day is long and I will be waiting for you, as in an empty station, when the trains are parked off somewhere else, asleep.

The ink-strokes are soft and curling on the pages. Athanasius calls a goodbye and slips out of the room. Jameson does not even notice.

Don't leave me, even for an hour, because then the little drops of anguish will all run together, the smoke that roams looking for a home will drift into me, choking my lost heart.

Jameson's fingers brush across the paper.

And they burn.

They burn.

There is power in these words.

He lets himself sink down to the ground, the backpack slipping off, his hands reaching out to the book, the book full of a feeling so strange and yet terrifyingly familiar.

Oh, may your silhouette never dissolve on the beach; may your eyelids never flutter into empty distance.

Footsteps come down the steps slowly, slowly, but Jameson does not hear. He is entranced. He is enthralled. He is crying.

Who wrote these words so gently? And why, oh, why do they feel like the silver river?

Don't leave me for a second, my dearest, because in that moment you'll have gone so far I'll wander mazily all over the earth, asking – Will you come back? Will you leave me here, dying?

The end of the poem.

Beneath it, the name Pablo Neruda in the delicate, scrawling font, the date 1/9/17 and then:

You're always running off on me! When will you stay? I don't know how to admit that I'm lonely without you. I have other people, I know. But I look forward to the day when you and I can really be together. It's easy for you. For me... I have to wait. Are you even safe? Lately when we are together all you do is pace, and I watch, and wish that you would stay longer. I guess you'll be off doing whatever it is you do, and I'll be here, with my poetry and my spells. Come see me again soon.

A soft drawing of a clock.

And for a second, as Jameson pulls his fingers away from the open page, he could swear that he sees, upon his skin, warm droplets of blue water, the scent of magnolia and the forest rises up to him again, powerful and sweet, his fingers are wet –

“Marvin?”

Jameson whirls around, gasping.

And Jackie stands in the doorway, grey as the cat in his arms.

His silhouette shivers and his moonlit hands shimmer with sweat. Jameson cannot make out the features of his face, not even the bold scars, raised whiter than the rest of his flesh, constellations on the warm surface of his skin.

Jameson's hands are shaking again. He didn't realize they had stopped.

He remembers, suddenly and painfully, being caught in Anti's room, the demon appearing behind him in the doorway, cooing and soothing, only to – only to – later that night, with the great silver blade of the knife –

Stiff through his panic, he chokes and rocks gently on his knees, reaching up to grip his own shoulders, to hold himself still. What else is he supposed to do? Freezing up has always been safer than running or fighting. Hold still and maybe Anti will ignore you. Comply and maybe you won't be punished. Clam up and stop moving or reacting and thinking and maybe you can drag your mind far away enough that you can watch yourself be tortured like a black and white film, and survive with your sanity intact.

Jackie stands behind him.

Moves slowly forward.

Jameson sits cross-legged on the floor, clutching the little book in his hands, trying not to breathe.

Jackie kneels down beside him, coughing softly in the darkness. He is close enough that Jameson can feel the heat of his fever – it must have spiked in the night; both of their hands tremble. Jameson cannot meet his eyes. If he could, he would see that they are glazed over with fear and grief and sickness.

But not with anger.

Not with hate.

A scarred hand touches his cheek.

“Marvin?” croaks Jackie.

Oh, please. Oh, please. Jameson does not react. Lie limp in the mouth of the mountain cat.

“Little brother,” whispers Jackie, and, taking his chin in his hands, pulls his face towards him.

Their eyes meet like the headlights of a car meet the body of a man who thought he was alone, standing on a bridge above a river at two in the morning.

And Jackie is crying.

There's a certain warmth on his mouth, an up-turn that was probably meant to be a smile, but his eyes are red and hot wet tears run rapid from them. Jameson is so startled that still he does not move, fixated as though his clock has stopped.

Monsters do not cry.

This is something he knows.

Anti never cried over him or anyone.

Anyone, anyone, anyone.

Jameson is tired of his memory.

“Jameson,” says Jackie.

JJ jerks away and staggers to his feet, knocking his hip hard against Marvin's bookcase, scattering poetry across the shelf. Jackie's eyes follow him, but he does not move to stop his little brother, just lets him slam himself back against the wall and cover his face with his hands, breathing too hard and too fast.

“I'm tired of being your enemy,” Jackie croaks.

On the floor, Neruda's Twenty Love Poems and Song of Despair has fallen open. Jackie rubs his hands back and forth across the thick downy rug, shaking his head slowly back and forth.

“Don't go,” he whispers. “Don't go, he will hurt you again.”

“I know,” says Jameson. “I know.” The first words he has ever spoken to Jackie.

“Stay,” says Jackie. “Stay. Jameson, stay here. Be my brother. Give him up. Be mine.”

He looks up and meets his gaze, meets his gaze square on, and Jameson sees, in his eyes, nothing at all worth fearing.

And this is the most horrible thing to find of them all.

Anti lied.

Anti lied.

He didn't just hate him, he didn't just abuse him, he turned him against everyone who ever could have saved him, and everything he ever did in his whole life was useless, was wrong, every murder at his hands was a damnation gifted him by someone he thought he loved, and all along, all along, the dream of the boy in the red hood could have been true.

The boy in the red hood was real and warm and loving.

For that, Jameson hates him.

It is an explosion inside him, a hemorrhage; he is bleeding hatred from the inside out, bursting with hatred, seething, sizzling, weeping, gritting teeth and clutched fists – oh, oh, could he have been saved so long ago? Was he really so wrong?

“Hit me,” cry his hands. “Hit me, hit me, hit me.”

“What?” Jackie blinks dizzily. He rubs at his face, trying to focus. He needs to be here with his little brother. “Hit you, I would never – ”

“Be cruel!” Jameson moves forward, towering over him where he kneels. “Be cruel, hit me, beat me. Tell me you hate me. I can't bear – ”

He drops off and falls back, covering his mouth with his hands.

“Can't bear what?” murmurs Jackie.

“If you're not what he said, then nothing is as he said. And if nothing is as he said, then I am just...”

A murderer. A slave. A fool. A pawn. A coward, a child, a weakling.

“You didn't know,” says Jackie, in a hoarse croak, frail as a bird. “It's not your fault.”

That's not something he's ever had the strength to believe, and he can't find it now either. Just stands in the moonlight.

He's so tired of hating himself.

“I wanted you to save me,” he admits. “For so long.”

And for this, Jackie has no answer. He looks up at him in silence.

“But you didn't.”

Jackie closes his eyes.

“I would never be your brother. I hate you so much I would kill myself just to make you cry over my corpse. You're cruel and you only care about yourself and your brothers and your master, your Mr. Jack. You're just his attack dog. That's what Anti said and he was right. He was right, he can't have been wrong. Can't have been. Can't... can't... please...”

Jameson turns away from him, shaking.

Jackie cannot speak. Cannot see through quiet tears in his blue eyes. One more time, he tries.

“Stay,” he whispers.

He used to shout words like these. Used to have these moments on the tops of roofs, not huddled against a carpet that used to belong to his little brother. Used to be angry instead of tired.

“Stay,” he cries. “Stay here, don't go. You belong at my side. I can't bear to lose you all over again. Stay, stay, don't go. I'm so sorry. You don't know how sorry I am. Don't go. Little brother, little brother.”

But Jameson moves, and hurries past him, and runs away from everything that could ever help him save himself.

The front door is locked, so he goes by the back, bare-foot.

Upstairs, Henrik's nightmares wake him screaming.

“He went into the forest.”

“Into the forest, into the forest – he can't escape that way, let him run.”

“He is gone,” Henrik screams, pulling against Jackie's grip. “He is gone, he is returned to him!”

“Schneep, Schneep!” Chase grabs his brother's shoulders and Henrik finds himself held tight between the two of them, but his vision is darkening and all he can see is Anti's face. He groans and slams himself into Jackie's chest, crying out without words, some part of Jameson's name mangled on his lips.

“Chase, listen!” cries Jackie. “He can't escape by way of the forest, but he doesn't know that! He'll freeze! And at the end of Marvin's world there are – ”

Jackie cuts himself off, hissing. Jameson wouldn't go there, would he?

“The thorns,” Henrik whimpers. “And he wants so badly to go back to him.”

“Fuck, shit,” Chase hisses, leaving Henrik's side to scramble towards the mudroom, throwing on a coat and two mismatched pairs of shoes, panting with adrenaline between exhausted rubbing of his face. Shit, why did he drink so much? The world's still spinning. “Jackie, you're faster than me, come on.”

“Not since Anti shattered me,” mumbles Jackie, gripping Henrik close as his brother begins to throw his head hard against his shoulder, wailing to be let go. “And I'm not feeling well. Go without me, Chase.”

“What?”

“Someone has to look after Schneep!”

“But Jackie – ”

“And anyway, the kid doesn't fucking want me.”

“Jackie, that's not – ”

“Chase, please!” shrieks Henrik, half-collapsed in Jackie's grip, and Jackie cries out “Don't argue with me!” at the same time.

“Fuck, shit!” Chase screams, with more emphasis than he's ever mustered in his life, and then he is bursting through the back door and racing through the forest, panic coursing hot through his chest. He can hear Henrik howling like a werewolf on a full moon night and he cannot tell if the tears in his eyes are from panic or the whipping of the cold spring wind. “Jameson! Jamie, where did you go? Jameson! Jameson!”

A yowling cry answers his own, and there, there she stands, magnificent in all her glory, white as a ghost and resplendent as the light of the moon: the Queen herself.

Marvin's favorite cat.

And when she turns and sprints down the eastern path, her long white tail lashing behind her in the dark, Chase does not stop to question why he follows.

No, Jameson won't get away tonight.

There is only one way out of this forest, and he has not taken it. Marvin knew every path, every step, every stick of this forest.

Right down to the great wall of thorns, which govern the edge of that endless abyss which encircles this reality.

Jameson heads towards them as fast as he has ever run.

He no longer cares much where he ends up.

[prayersforpets1org]

"Valentino" Sees Neurologist Today for Constant Tremors

New Post has been published on https://prayersforpets1.org/valentino-sees-neurologist-today-constant-tremors/

"Valentino" Sees Neurologist Today for Constant Tremors

PRAY FOR VALENTINO Senior Rescue: Constant Tremor. Father God You know how Valentino struggles to function. Please help this Neurologist to determine what is causing his shaking. Give mom Monica ways she can treat his symptoms to give him a better quality of life and enable him to eat and enjoy his many siblings. If it would be Your will, we ask for complete healing. In the Name of El Malei Rachamim, God is merciful . Amen. <3 Caren

Monica Davis North 9-14-17:  Valentino is going to meet with a neurologist tomorrow so hopefully we’ll know more about his condition and what kind of treatments, if any, can be used on him.

Psalm 46:10 “Be still, and know that I am God. I will be exalted among the nations, I will be exalted in the earth

[pargolettasworld]

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FpTSO6S9y1I

This lament is composed by Livy Yehudai-Shalita, animated by her father Dodo Shalita, and sung by Avremi Roth.  It’s based on “El Malei Rachamim,” which is the formal Jewish prayer for the dead.  The Mourner’s Kaddish is what’s said in services, but the El Malei Rachamim comes out at funerals, at Yizkor (Memorial) prayer services, and of course, on days like Tisha b’Av and Yom HaShoah.  This video was produced for Yom HaShoah 2021, and it is an amazing piece of art.

[brandonjnelson]

El Malei Rachamim: A Holocaust MEmorial (for concert band)

El Malei Rachamim (God full of compassion) is a Jewish Prayer for the departed that is recited at funeral services, on visiting the graves of relatives, and after having been called up to a reading of the Torah on the anniversary of the death of a relative. The prayer originated in the Jewish communities of Western and Eastern Europe and since the end of the Holocaust, the prayer has been adapted…

[coffeeshoprabbi]

What is Rachamim?

Image: Infant in mother’s arms (samuel Lee / Pixabay)

Jews hear the word rachamim (RAH-khah-meem) at the worst moments of their lives, when they are mourning the death of a loved one. It is in the first line of the prayer for the dead:

…אֵל מָלֵא רַחֲמִים

El, maleh rachamim…

– El Male Rachamim, Prayer for the Dead

According to Alcalay, a good Hebrew-English dictionary, rachamim can…

[eshetchayils2]

Nascimento…

Escolhendo o nome Judaico..

A importância de um nome judaico refere-se àquela parte de nós que verdadeiramente define a identidade judaica: a alma judaica. Um nome judaico é o seu chamado espiritual, um título que reflete seus traços particulares de caráter e os dons concedidos por D’us. O fato de que o nome da pessoa representa sua força vital é insinuado pela palavra neshamá (alma), cujas duas letras intermediárias formam a palavra shem (nome). As letras do nome de uma pessoa são como o cano através do qual a vida é levada ao corpo. Portanto, a palavra shem, nome, tem o mesmo valor numérico que tzinor, cano. Nomear um recém-nascido judeu é uma tarefa sagrada, parte do ciclo de vida da religião judaica. Um menino recebe o nome durante a cerimônia do brit milá, quando entra no pacto de Avraham Avinu; uma menina é nomeada logo após seu nascimento, na primeira oportunidade em que a Torá será lida. Seu pai então é chamado na Torá e nesta oportunidade anuncia seu nome judaico. Ao escolher um nome para a criança recém-nascida, os pais passam em revista os nomes de seus entes queridos. Isso se baseia no preceito da Torá de que o nome do falecido não deve ser apagado de Israel. Ocasionalmente, uma criança recebe o nome de algum erudito de Torá, ou do maior tsadic da geração, cuja vida foi consagrada à Torá; ou então uma menina recebe o nome de mulheres sábias e grandiosas da Torá, cuja vida serviu como inspiração a todos. Quando a criança recebe o nome de um parente falecido – segundo o costume askenazi – cumpre também a mitsvá de honrar pai e mãe. Esta mitsvá é obrigatória não somente durante a vida deles, como também depois de sua morte. É uma grande satisfação para a alma, e proporciona prazer às almas dos parentes falecidos, quando os descendentes recebem seus nomes. A Cabalá afirma que os pais recebem inspiração Divina ao escolher um nome para seu filho. O nome é registrado como pertencendo para sempre a esta criança. É por este nome que o menino será chamado à Torá quando chegar a seu bar mitsvá, aos treze anos; quando chegar à vida adulta e ao casamento, seu nome aparecerá na ketubá; este nome é mencionado na prece E-l malei rachamim oferecida em benefício da alma após 120 anos. Assim, o nome judaico acompanha o judeu por toda a vida e em todas as ocasiões. Classificação de nomes judaicos Os nomes judaicos podem ser classificados em diferentes categorias: 1 – Nomes bíblicos – nomes mencionados nos Cinco Livros da Torá, nos Profetas, ou nas Sagradas Escrituras. 2 – Nomes talmúdicos – nomes originalmente encontrados no Talmud e Midrashim. 3 – Nomes encontrados na natureza – no mundo animal, alguns dos quais aparecem nas Escrituras, tais como Chava, Rachel, Devorah, Tziporah, Yonah, etc. Há também nomes do reino animal não mencionados nas Escrituras como nomes de pessoas, tais como Aryrh, Zev, Tzvi; tais nomes originaram-se com as bênçãos de Yaacov e Moshê, que aplicaram os nomes de diversas coisas vivas às tribos de Israel. 4 – Nomes encontrados na Natureza – no mundo vegetal, alguns dos quais aparecem nas Escrituras, como Tamar, etc. Outros nomes desse tipo são Shoshana, Alon, Oren, Oranah, Aviva, etc. 5 – Nomes que incluem o Nome de D’us dentro deles, e nomes que expressam agradecimentos a D’us. 6 – Nomes de Anjos, que foram adotados como nomes humanos:Gabriel, Rafael, etc. 7 – Nomes secundários, que ocorrem em conjunto com o nome principal, embora ocasionalmente estejam sozinhos. Como faço para dar ou receber um nome hebraico? 1 – Além de sua escolha Geralmente, seu nome hebraico é aplicado a você por ocasião de seu nascimento ou pouco depois, escolhido por seus pais, que o nomeiam em homenagem a um ente querido falecido, geralmente um antepassado (costume ashkenazi) ou a um ente querido, como avós, ainda vivos, como forma de homenageá-los (costume sefaradi). Ou, caso eles não tenham ninguém para homenagear, talvez você receba um nome hebraico da preferência deles. Portanto na verdade você não poderá escolher seu próprio nome, a menos que não tenha recebido um até a idade adulta. 2 – Por sua escolha Se você não recebeu um nome hebraico até a idade adulta, ou seja, seus pais não lhe fizeram um brit (caso seja menino) ou não lhe deram um nome na primeira oportunidade em que foi lida a Torá logo após seu nascimento (se for menina), você pode selecionar qualquer nome hebraico normal que lhe agrade. 3 – Opções de conversão Um terceiro nome hebraico alternativo é quando um não-judeu se converte ao Judaísmo. O convertido pode escolher qualquer nome hebraico, geralmente há escolha algo foneticamente semelhante ao nome existente: John talvez se torne Yonatan (hebraico para Jonathan), Mary pode se tornar Miriam. Situações especiais Um menino que já nasceu circuncidado é nomeado no hatafas dam bris, na presença de um minyan. Caso não haja um quórum de dez homens, poderá ser nomeado na presença de dois. Se uma criança nasceu, e é necessário rezar pela sua saúde, seu nome poderá ser dado imediatamente, para que possam rezar em seu nome. Costuma-se apenas dar o nome neste caso, sem no entanto torná-lo público até o brit milá. Quando uma pessoa se encontra em situação de risco, como uma grave doença ou problemas de saúde, D’us não o permita, costuma-se acrescentar outro nome ao seu nome judaico original. Desta forma pode-se alterar seu mazal, sorte e destino, e rezar pelo seu pronto restabelecimento e cura. Importância vital O nome pelo qual a pessoa é chamada é o recipiente que contém a força vital condensada inerente nas letras do nome. Como disse o Eterno aos Anjos: "A sabedoria de Adam é maior que a sua", pois ele entendeu a fonte suprema de cada ser criado, e segundo este Ele o chamou por seus nomes. Portanto, descobrimos que quando desejamos reviver alguém que desmaiou, chamamos seu nome. Ao chamar seu nome, despertamos a força vital em sua fonte, e atraímos vitalidade para o corpo. Similarmente, se alguém está adormecido, nós o chamamos por seu nome. Ao falecer, quando a alma parte do corpo e chega perante a Corte Celestial, não lhe é perguntado: "Qual é seu nome hebraico" A pergunta feita é simplesmente: "Qual é seu nome?" Porque seu nome verdadeiro, sua essência, está contida em seu nome hebraico. Atualmente, o maior problema para o povo judeu é a assimilação e a ignorância. Embora seja um grande problema, existem pequenas coisas que podemos fazer para lutar contra isso. Podemos assistir uma aula de Torá uma vez por semana ou por mês. Podemos celebrar o Shabat. E podemos usar nossos nomes hebraicos. Quando os usamos, lembramo-nos constantemente de quem somos, fortificando assim nossa identidade judaica e automaticamente lutamos contra a assimilação. Parafraseando Neil Armstrong, talvez seja um pequeno passo para um judeu, mas um salto gigante para o Judaísmo! Devemos nos inspirar no exemplo fornecido por nosso povo na saída do Egito; não se assimilaram. Este fato deveu-se a três fatores fundamentais que fizeram questão de conservar: o modo de se vestirem, a língua (hebraico) e o nome (judaico). Quanto ao último, disseram nossos Sábios: (Bamidbar Rabah 20:22) "Nossos antepassados mereceram ser redimidos do Egito porque não mudaram seus nomes." Devido a estes cuidados tiveram o mérito de serem redimidos e conduzidos à outorga da Torá no Monte Sinai. Que possamos através de nossas boas ações e utilização destas mesmas "vestimentas" que nos conectam à nossa essência, sermos merecedores de presenciar a recompensa neste mundo: uma época sem guerras, onde a paz verdadeira será restabelecida e o conhecimento de D’us transbordará no mundo inteiro. Enquanto aguardamos, continuaremos colocando nomes judaicos em nossos filhos e, nossos filhos em nossos netos.

[pargolettasworld]

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i5KCytacBt0

The Mourner’s Kaddish is one of the more interesting mysteries of Jewish liturgy.  The Kaddish is a prayer of praise, and there are several different versions of it that appear throughout the liturgy, each version serving a slightly different purpose.  None of them mentions death, and there’s no real reason that there should be a Kaddish specifically for mourning -- in fact, there is a whole different prayer especially for mourning, the El Malei Rachamim.  But what is it about the Kaddish that made us adopt it for mourners?

There are historical explanations, of course, but those are often less interesting than thinking about what relevance a prayer like the Kaddish might have for mourners.  I’ve had a few Hebrew students study the Mourner’s Kaddish with me, and I challenge them to think about why we might use this kind of prayer in this way.  In the upcoming school year, I might use this video in that lesson.  I love the way that Michael Hunter Ochs, the composer, blends the text of the Kaddish with a meditation on the Divine presence as the ultimate source of strength and comfort for a mourner.  Why do we praise the Divine?  Because that’s who is with us in the presence of death.

[pargolettasworld]

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JcTDXPWDisM

There’s something extra special about children at Holocaust memorial events. As the speaker at the top of this video indicates (very politely -- he is a diplomat, after all), this large group of Jewish children singing together is exactly the opposite of what the Nazis wanted. 

There is a difference between International Holocaust Memorial Day (January 26) and Yom HaShoah (a week after Pesach) that is a little hard to articulate, but I’ve never let that sort of thing stop me before, and I don’t intend to let it stop me now.  HMD events tend to be very respectful, but a bit . . . I don’t know, distant?  HMD is the world’s memorial day; it’s not really a day for the Jews.  Some HMD events make this abundantly clear by framing things around the idea that “genocide” in general is A Bad Thing, often giving examples of genocides that are either currently happening or that happened within the past forty years.  In fact, I’ve been to some HMD events that barely acknowledged the Holocaust at all, just sort of lighting a few candles and suffering a Jew or two to talk, with the audience clearly being very Tolerant™ and kind of wishing that this Jew would shut up about the Holocaust so they could all get back to remembering the Rwandan genocide for Holocaust Memorial Day.

But Yom HaShoah . . . that’s the Jewish day.  It’s partly a sad and solemn day, and you will often hear someone singing the El Malei Rachamim.  But Yom HaShoah takes place right after Pesach to commemorate the Warsaw Ghetto Uprising.  We’re not just mourning the Six Million on Yom HaShoah -- we’re also celebrating our resistance fighters, and our survival.  In one breath, we mourn the victims of the Nazis, and in the next, we offer those same Nazis our proudest, most upright middle finger.  Yom HaShoah is sad, but it’s also proud and angry.  And what better way to say “Never Again” than to have over a hundred little Jewish kids stand up straight and sing it out?