What to Do in Grief
It’s early in the life of this newsletter, and I know you’ve come to expect some light-hearted observations about Jewish life, combined with some insight and learning, maybe.
But today, I just don’t have the heart for it.
My extended family suffered a terrible tragedy this week. And everything that seemed to matter so much, everything that seemed essential to say or do or write, it all just recedes.
I’ll show my hand a little, readers: Yes, I believe in God, and yes, Judaism means a great deal to me. I think religion in general is good for people — not always good, but more good than bad, in most cases.
Part of the reason I believe that is when the unthinkable happens, you have somewhere to turn. When faced with events that are all out of proportion to our daily experience, we can reach for something higher. Something fixed, when everything else is unmoored.
Today, Friday, Muslims all over the world will go to the mosque to pray. Tomorrow morning, Saturday, Jews across the globe will go to synagogue and read the Torah. On Sunday, Christians will gather in church.
There is comfort in these rituals. They seem to stand out from ordinary time, offer the prospect of some higher order.
But that higher order — I don’t know where to find it today.
In Jewish teaching, there is the idea that everything that happens —joyous, awful — is all part of the divine order.
Only who can understand it?
Who can make sense of grief, and tragedy, and needless pain?
No one I’ve ever met.
Religion can comfort. But I don’t know that it can explain.
Maybe, then, comfort is the best we can do. One of the core rituals of grief in Judaism is sitting shiva — the practice of family, friends, neighbors, fellow synagogue members, gathering in the home of the mourner.
We will never understand why death comes when it does. But we are instructed not to be alone. And we are instructed not to leave anyone in mourning alone with their pain.
I’ll end for today with a passage from Emily Dickinson — the words of consolation she wrote in a letter to a grieving friend, Mary Bowles, after the stillbirth of Mary’s third child.
“Don’t cry, dear Mary. Let us do that for you, because you are too tired now. We don’t know how dark it is, but if you are at sea, perhaps when we say that we are there, you won’t be as afraid. The waves are very big, but every one that covers you, covers us, too. Dear Mary, you can’t see us, but we are close at your side.”
May God bless all who mourn, in my family, in every family.