Somewhat surprisingly, considering I come from a close-knit Jewish family in north London who have sitcoms made about them, I have only been to two Jewish weddings in my life. I belong to the generation of assimilated immigrants for whom Judaism is a cultural rather than a religious identifier. We crowd into my parents’ living room to light candles for Hanukkah and complain when there aren’t enough latkes, but when my cousins ​​got married, they – like me – chose non-Jewish partners who had to be introduced to our world of half-forgotten Hebrew songs and obscure family traditions.

All but two, that is. Seven years ago, my cousin Nick had what I consider to be one of the most spectacular Jewish weddings ever. In the blazing August sun, I watched the hot but happy couple stand under the chuppah, experiencing for the first time an unfamiliar ceremony in a semi-familiar language, full of joy but also mystery. I learned that at a Jewish wedding, the groom hardly speaks and the bride doesn’t speak at all. The rabbi does most of the talking. The bride circles the groom seven times; the groom stomps on a glass to get rid of all the bad luck of the marriage early. The guests cheer and shout “shkoyach,” a congratulatory gesture meaning “done with strength,” and try not to cry.

It was a perfect day. But the breaking of the glass had made no difference. Two years later, Nick died – suddenly and unexpectedly. The extended family that had gathered to celebrate his wedding now came together again to commemorate his life. We visited his parents, who were sitting shiva in shock. We tried to comfort his widow. We said prayers. Yitgadal v’yitkadash sh’mei raba, the Kaddish of the mourners.

It was only last month that I realized the extent to which my grief-stricken mind had linked the two together – the Jewish wedding and the Jewish funeral. Nick’s brother, my cousin, was getting married. His wedding promised to be just as spectacular as the first, a glamorous and chaotic mix of prayers, dancing and broken glass. Another chuppah, another rabbi. Familiar and strange. A touch of déjà vu, the imprint of grief.

This time the sun was not shining. Despite the torrential rain that morning, the bride insisted on the planned outdoor ceremony, and she was right. We only had to open our umbrellas once. Mixing misfortune with happiness, a glass half empty and half full—and then smashed and trampled. The ancient merged with the modern. A Jewish wedding begins with first the groom and then the bride entering while prayers are sung. The words are always the same, the melody not so much. He strode to a Hebrew blessing sung to the tune of “The Circle of Life” from The Lion King; she to Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah”. Of course I cried. We all cried.

Instead of trying to ignore Nick’s memory, which was breathing down our necks whether we realized it or not, we embraced it. We talked about how much he had enjoyed the celebration. We raised our glasses to him. He should have given the best man’s speech; instead, his father spoke in his honor. Shkoyach. Done with power. And we danced, the bride and groom hoisted onto chairs, shrieking with joy and fear as they tried to hold on to the same handkerchief. Traditional klezmer music gave way to the usual wedding hits: “Dancing Queen,” “Reach for the Stars.” The religious mixed with the secular, ancient and modern, old traditions and new traditions that will be old in time.

It’s been a month now, and I can’t stop thinking about a story the rabbi told as the bride and groom stood under the chuppah. He was talking about an activity he led at a Jewish summer camp where the children were divided into two groups. One group built a tower out of cardboard boxes, and the other learned a song. Afterward, they gathered around a campfire. Half of them threw the tower they’d built into the campfire while the other half sang their song. The tower was gone, but the song remained. That’s the power of shared memories. Of traditions, of culture, of community. Something uplifting, something hopeful, even—especially—after loss.

(See also: I’m in love with my tattoos)