Yizkor Introduction

Yom Kippur Afternoon 5780

Rabbi Steven Moskowitz

The following story happened this past August (August 8, 2019). I share the account of
Canadian journalist Jackson Proskow. He writes:

I’m at the airport in Dallas and something incredible is happening.

Our incoming plane is carrying the remains of an American pilot shot down over Vietnam in
1967. His remains were only recently recovered and identified and brought back to the US.

The agent took a long pause as he seemed to collect his words. “Col. Roy Abner Knight, Jr.
ejected from his aircraft, but no parachute was seen deploying,” he explained. “A search was
undertaken, but US forces could not find him. Today, Col. Knight is coming home to Dallas,”
said the agent, growing more emotional as he continued explaining what we were about to
witness. “Before deploying, Col. Knight said farewell to his family at this very airport. He waved
goodbye to his five-year-old son. It would be the last time he would see any of them or for that
matter, they would see him.”

By this point in the story, the terminal had fallen silent. T.S.A. agents stood solemnly in a line
near the gate. The gate agent held the microphone in his hands, taking a long pause and a deep
breath. He struggled to say what came next: “Today, the pilot of the plane bringing Col. Knight
home is his son.”

There were quiet gasps. A few people burst into tears. The crowd grew larger, with noses
pressed up to the glass for a view of the gate. As Flight 1220 from Oakland taxied toward the
jet bridge, two airport firetrucks provided a somber water salute while the ground crew stood
in formation. We all watched silently as the flag-draped casket was unloaded from the cargo
hold, met by what we could only assume to be Col. Knight’s family and a military guard.

Airports rarely see moments of quiet — but for a few brief minutes, Dallas Love Field fell
absolutely silent. People stood quietly at the window, wiping away tears, taking in a moment
few rarely get to see. It was peaceful, it was beautiful, and it was a privilege to watch.

Col. Knight’s final honor would involve his own family. His son Bryan — that same five-year-old
who had waved goodbye to him when he left for overseas in 1967 — is now a captain with
Southwest Airlines. And it was Bryan who flew his father home 52 years after that goodbye.

In many ways the Yizkor service we are about to enter is akin to this story. We are all travelers
pressing our faces against the terminal windows, accompanying our friends as they grieve,
holding our family members close as we recall cherished loved ones who live in our memories
and the stories we share. Each of us can be at times that young boy, now a man, who is
bringing their father home. Each of us is trying to come to terms with our own losses.

We come together as a congregation. We mourn in community. We stand together. We uplift

each other. Our voices join as one when we intone the sacred words of the kaddish prayer.

It does not hurt any less, but our prayers and songs help to carry us home.