“What are you smiling about?” a colleague inquired as I arrived at the office.

I couldn’t bring myself to give her an honest answer, despite her friendly tone. I suppose I could have told her the truth: that I was in a good mood because I had gone to an early-morning service at my synagogue. In fact, the situation struck me as amusing, if somewhat strange.

It was May 26 of last year – a Tuesday. Three days earlier,  I had finished saying Kaddish for my father. Originally – based on what others had told me – I expected to stop, feel a void for a while after 11 months of attending twice-daily services, and then fill my time with other things. I assumed I’d be back on Saturdays – because, well, that’s the day you go to shul.

But of all the services I attended during the 11 months of Kaddish, weekday mornings on my way to work had turned out to be my favourite. I loved the camaraderie of the more intimate group, and the feeling that my day was off to a good start. I liked the kibbitzing, and the conversation over breakfast. I said many times over the course of the year that I couldn’t have chosen a better group to say Kaddish with if I had hand-picked them.

I also found that I liked the prayer component. I liked that  it gave me time to reflect. I liked being in sync with other Kaddish-sayers as we recited the words in unison. I liked the connection I felt to my synagogue community, and to my religion. I liked the quirks of our minyan, from the finicky ark doors that had to be closed just so, to the way participants often ended up walking the length of the chapel because of the number of people wanting to shake their hands after an honour.

Instead of quitting the minyan cold turkey, as some people do when they finish saying Kaddish, I had decided to taper off gradually. During the week, I would continue to wake up early and alternate between working out and going to shul for at least one more month. Although Kaddish is traditionally said for a parent for 11 months, the mourning period actually lasts a year.

On the Monday of my first week post-Kaddish, I left my house early for a “power” walk. I’d been in the habit of walking in the morning years ago and enjoyed the sense of well-being it gave me. But that morning, I spent most of my walk missing the minyan and the company of the people I’d been sharing breakfast with. I looked forward to being there the next day, although I wondered if anyone would think I was prolonging the mourning period unduly.

It isn’t uncommon for men to become minyan “regulars” once Kaddish is over, but – at least at the earlier of the two morning services at my synagogue, Beth David B’nai Israel Beth Am – women rarely go, unless they are saying Kaddish or observing a yahrzeit.

Also, at Beth David, which is Conservative, women aren’t counted as part of the traditional prayer quorum (although we do receive Torah honours). A cousin of mine, who belongs to a Reform congregation, told me that when she finished saying Kaddish every day, she decided that she would continue going to services on occasion to help make up the minyan, as a way of paying back – or paying forward – the support she had received there. I didn’t have that excuse either.

Nor am I a davener – someone who is proficient in prayer – like my father was. I’m more a follow-along-er.

But if any of the regulars thought it was odd that I was there, they didn’t let on – at least not to my knowledge.

I continued as planned until my father’s first yahrzeit, alternating shul with walking ­­or working out, on weekday mornings.

I decided to keep up the routine through the summer, but once fall arrived, I felt more strongly that I needed an excuse to go to morning minyan. As it happened, that wasn’t a problem. I’d go when someone was finishing Kaddish or observing a yahrzeit, and a couple of times a friend who was still saying Kaddish suggested that I attend when he was reading Torah.

By the end of December, though, most of my shul friends had finished their 11 months, and I was pretty much out of excuses for being there. And yet, seven months had gone by since the end of May, and it didn’t seem inconceivable any more to go to the minyan without an excuse.

In January, I decided that I would continue attending services one morning a week before work – whether I had an excuse or not. Having acquired the habit of waking up early during Kaddish, I’m also able to get to the gym regularly.

I still go to shul on Shabbat, and a small group that I said Kaddish with meets on Sunday morning to walk before services.

Late last summer, by coincidence, my mother came across a letter from my dad, in which he wrote about his own synagogue attendance. He had sent it to my aunt and uncle in 1944, when he was a 22-year-old serving in the RCAF in England during World War II. He had no way of knowing the significance it would eventually have for us.

Prompted by his thoughts on a talk about religion that he’d heard on his base, my father wrote, “The simple truth is that I get a kick out of [going to shul]. I attend synagogue because I enjoy myself there… it gives me a certain amount of pleasure to carry on traditions that have been passed down through centuries.”

It seems the rationale I was looking for had been there all along.