This
week, we said goodbye to my husband’s father John, who died mid-November
unexpectedly due to heart failure. My son told me that he was particularly sad
because John was his last living grandparent.
Walking
into the church where the funeral was held, I was surprised by the wave of
emotion that hit me. Many of John’s friends were there, singing “Amazing Grace”
as we walked to the front of the church, and I couldn’t help but remember that
only two years before we were in the same spot, mourning my husband’s mother.
But
what also struck me was that the people who were singing seemed as though they
were trying to let us know they were with us, and the song was meant, somehow,
to hold us up. It felt to me as if I could hear the love in their voices,
saying, yes, this is a bad blow, but John is in our hearts right now and we are with you.
My son
and I are Jewish and our mourning rituals are very different than the
traditions in my husband’s family, but the feeling of community is the same;
because, of course, people are people, no matter what their traditions may be.
In the Jewish tradition, we say the Mourner’s Kaddish prayer for a year, and
the first week mourners traditionally sit on low benches, close to the ground,
without wearing shoes. It occurred to me that I like this tradition because unexpected death always feels like I'm falling off a cliff--like the cartoon characters whose legs go round and round after they drop off the edge of a precipice.
My
son’s first experience with the death of a loved one involved his stepmother,
who died tragically early because of cancer. He was twelve at the time and his
father asked me to pick him up from school and tell him about the death. I was
loathe to do it, but felt I had to go through with it because his father had
asked.
I
believe Josh had been expecting his stepmother’s death, but telling him still
felt like a blow and years later, I can still remember him punching the seat of
our car, because I told him right after I’d picked him up from school. I tried
to talk about love being eternal and the possibility of meeting again in the
World to Come, but it didn’t feel very comforting to me, even while I was
saying it.
I think
no matter what we tell our children about death, it will always be sad, and
maybe it should be. When someone dies in the Jewish community, we say “May God
comfort you and all the mourners of Zion,” to let the mourner know he or she is
not alone. I want very badly to believe in an afterlife, but I struggle to
manage it—perhaps because it was not emphasized in my synagogue or Jewish
community.
At the same time, there
is a beautiful Biblical saying that does bring some measure of comfort, that I
remembered on waking this morning. “Teach us how to number our days, that we
may get us a heart of wisdom.”
Last
summer, my husband and I met up with the family at their summer cabin, and I
remember watching his dad enjoy the impromptu bluegrass concert his friends offer
regularly in their home. He looked so happy and more than that, he looked as
though he was drinking in every moment of the music, which lit up his face and
eased the pain that seemed always to plague his back in the past few months.
Because
moments are what life is made of, in the end, I think, they are what mortality
teaches us--to hold onto and to treasure. So if you have trouble talking to
your kids about immortality, maybe it’s fine just to start with the idea of
being mortal. And even if reaching out your hands in love and kindness isn't everything... it can be a start.
For
more on this subject, you might try reading these articles:
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