At my grandmother’s funeral this week, I noticed some movement near the grave. At the moment I did not realize what it was. Only afterward did I find out what had happened. They had buried her together with her very worn and taped Tehillim.

For those who may not be familiar, Tehillim is the Book of Psalms, containing the prayers and songs of King David written throughout the course of his turbulent life. Jews have turned to the Tehillim for thousands of years in moments of pain and joy, fear and gratitude, for when we have words, and for when we do not have words.

This was her only request. That when her time came, she wanted to be buried together with her precious Tehillim.

She had always loved reading these Psalms, and so when my cousin Chaya was once in Israel, she bought her this book because it had large print, and it had become difficult for her to read.

The truth is, my Bubby did not just read Tehillim. She sang Tehillim.

She would say the words out loud, often with a melody, not as if she was reading from a page, but speaking to someone very close. This Tehillim book became part of her. It was part of the rhythm of her life. It was part of the sound of her soul.

I clearly remember several months ago, when I went to visit her in the hospital. It was a particularly rough time, and she was not doing well. I remember once sitting there near her bed, watching her prop up her Tehillim so she could see the words. And even though she was weak and her body was struggling, there she was sitting up, reading her Tehillim, letting the words lift her somewhere higher.

It was so powerful that I took a picture.

Not because it was dramatic. Not because she was making any kind of statement. Quite the opposite. It was quiet and simple.

It was just who she was.

And in the end, it was this book that she always kept so close, this book that she prayed and sang from, that went with her to the........

© The Times of Israel (Blogs)