My mother in law recently gave me something that is truly precious. It’s a piece of jewelry, and worth a lot, but its worth to me isn’t monetary, but its value is in memories and love.
Grandma’s ring is beautiful, and every time I glance down at it, I am reminded of what a sweet, loving person Ida Fox really was—as a Jew and as a matriarch of our family. The Jewish way of death is very logical—like so much of the religion. It’s remembering the person, but not dwelling on the death, grieving, but never alone, and passing on any and all stories, so the deceased will never be forgotten. I love this—it makes sense.
While death is not something to be celebrated per se, it’s not something to be feared, both for the deceased and for the remaining family. Whenever my synagogue sends me a death notice of one of our congregants, the message always says, “...along with our prayers, our hope is that clear and loving recollection will remain with all the members of the family and friends…and that those who did not have the privilege of knowing her, will come to do so through their sharing those loving recollections with us.” The idea that the person isn’t gone--not really, not while we have stories and memories--is gratifying.
Jews must bury their dead within 24 hours. While this most likely stems from the desert nomadic lifestyle from long ago, it also ensures that one won’t prolong their grief. The body is immediately wrapped in a sheet, put into a closed casket, and when it’s laid to rest in the earth, the mourners help with the first shovelfuls of dirt. The burial is fast, and Jews aren’t allowed to grieve alone at first. It’s expected that the mourners will hold a shiva in their home for at least a week with at least a minyan (10 adults) present and then the mourner says Kaddish every day for a year.
The Kaddish just makes sense. It’s a prayer that is offered at every service, just in case there is someone out there in the group who needs to say it. It’s also a prayer that everyone has a part in. There are times when the mourners pray alone, but there are five points in the prayer where the audience must respond, either with an “Amen,” or a blessing. It’s a prayer that also offers kindness and good wishes for those in grief-- “Y’hei sh’lama raba min sh’maya v’chayim aleinu v’al kol Israel.” (May there be abundant peace from Heaven and life upon us and upon all Israel).
My grandfather died unexpectedly after an operation that went awry, and my family wasn’t prepared to make the trip north quickly for the funeral. So, about a week later, my grandfather was laid out in his formaldehyde glory in his best suit for us to parade by. I remember how cold his hand was and how fake he looked without his glasses on. We had a memorial service a day later. Exactly when did we get to grieve together? During the viewing? The memorial? The graveside service? It was all so confusing.
When my husband’s grandfather died (on Christmas Eve), we flew out that night and made it for the funeral. It was my first Jewish funeral, and it felt strange to stand in line with my shovel to throw into the grave. But after that, we went home, and the Rabbi made sure that a minyan showed up that night for the shiva. That was community…here was a family, largely nonobservant, but when it mattered, they came.
And last Fall, when my husband’s wonderful grandmother passed on, the community came again, we laid to rest, but I feel her presence more than ever. Every time I glance down at her ring, she’s there. Stories, memories, and songs she sang dance around head. She offers me solace that the Jewish way of death isn’t so tragic—she lives on in me and in my Jewish family. And that’s peace.
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