The Blessing of Sorrow Read online

  Two weeks later, I saw her again. She sat up in her hospital bed and her face was filled with shadows and apprehension. But she was also angry . . . at me. “Rabbi, you shouldn’t have told me that I’d be okay when you really did not know. The doctors have given me a terminal diagnosis. I have only a few weeks to live. That was irresponsible of you. Don’t go around giving people false hope.”

  She was so right and I was completely devastated and ashamed. In spite of her disappointment in me, she forgave me and allowed that my intentions had been good. But my heedless behavior had done her no good. Since then, I honor Lynn’s memory by remaining circumspect and judicious in every situation involving either the dying or the grieving.

  So yes, the dying ask questions. They ask, “How could God do this to me?” “How will my family carry on without me?” These heartrending inquiries are certainly difficult to hear. We provide part of the answer each time by just being present for them in their anguished state. They are so often terrified of the abyss. When they verbalize to us, “I am afraid,” we need to acknowledge their fears. Maybe we can respond with “I understand.” Maybe it’s as simple as taking their hand and letting them feel the kindness and devotion we hold in our heart. Maybe that tenderness gives them the response they need and deserve.

  Those at the end of life frequently have asked me, “Will I be reunited with my husband (or another family member who is already deceased)?” It is fully appropriate in such an instance to reply, “Yes.” I do not believe this to be disingenuous. It is reassuring and supportive. There is no risk involved. The fact is that it is entirely possible that we human beings are rejoined with our beloved in whatever the next dimension is. This kind of message to the dying does not mislead them. Rather, it helps to lead them across the bridge. A reunion in heaven is what we all hope for anyway.

  In the end, the beacon standard in the challenging and sacred intervals we spend with the dying and the grieving is being yourself. The people we are attending to are certainly being themselves in their grueling predicaments. Say little but do much simply by being present. Listen, listen, listen. They want to be heard and, to whatever extent possible, they don’t want to be alone.

  11 These procedures will be detailed extensively in Chapter Six, in which two funeral directors are interviewed and describe what they and their staff do.

  12 Corroborated for me in 2010 personally by Rev. Samuel “Billy” Kyles of Memphis, TN.

  13 “Healing Advice: Sandberg’s Hard-Won Wisdom on How to Recover,” published in AARP: The Magazine, June/July 2017, p. 51.

  14 Eliot Jay Rosen, Experiencing the Soul: Before Birth, During Life, after Death (Carlsbad: Hay House, Inc. 1998).

  Chapter Four

  How Grief Can Complicate One’s Life: What Should I Do in the Days after the Funeral?

  “When you are born, you cry, and the world rejoices. When you die, you rejoice, and the world cries.”

  Buddhist saying

  There is some social awkwardness and spiritual confusion in the moments and days right after a memorial service of any kind. There is the release of initial closure that the ceremony hopefully creates. Depending upon the circumstances of the death, some people actually experience various levels of relief. This is, of course, much more likely if the departed was older and/or suffered a long and debilitating illness. It is normal to have such feelings of reprieve when a loved one is finally suffering no more.

  However, there is rarely a sensation of relief when a child or a younger adult dies, or a dear one succumbs to a drug overdose, or is killed in an automobile accident, or commits suicide, or is murdered. How a person leaves this earth has a direct impact upon how one grieves—emotionally, spiritually, and physically. Every demise is a singular moment and, therefore, all the regimented formalities of the faiths do not necessarily work or alleviate the agony. There is no absolute standard in this just as there is no definitive formula about how to experience life. Death is as personal as the person who dies.

  I don’t reject the mourning practices of my faith, but I also never start to legislate doctrine when people are freshly bereaved. They need to be served at their point of need. They should never be made to feel guilty because they are not familiar with or don’t follow this or that timeworn ritual. Their hearts are broken; I can teach them theology another day. Nobody should be judging; we should be remembering.

  People have asked me: Should I just stay home and weep for a few days? When should I return to work? When can I go out to the movies or to a restaurant with friends? How many days away from everything familiar and routine is acceptable?

  Some of the organized faiths’ offerings and practices do provide structure and guidance and a dogmatic order that often soothes and reassures bereaved people suffering through the chaos of loss. People who don’t observe a faith should not disparage anyone who truly requires the codes and liturgies of regulated traditions in order to cope with fresh grief. Whatever we are doing or not doing to manage the sorrow, we are all crossing the same bridge of mortality.

  I’ve noticed that Protestant Christianity normally doesn’t impose a preset amount of time for the fixed period of formal mourning. In the Christian community, family and friends linger with the dead; there are often wakes, also called visitations, held at home or in a church or in a funeral parlor. This is generally known as the Vigil Service among Catholics. The body is present, the casket is open; people gather around, reminiscing, eating, and personally paying respects. This rite—basically informal and preceding the official church service—is unknown in the Jewish and Islamic communities. Jews and Muslims do not linger with their dead; they bury as soon as possible, within a day—particularly the Muslims. However, the widely assumed twenty-four-hour deadline for burial among the Jews is rarely enforced in America except among the fundamental or Orthodox sects.

  Hindus strive to hold the cremation service before the sun goes down on the same day that death takes place. Buddhists, who also usually cremate their dead, spend six days in reflection. The virtuous attributes of the deceased are quietly commemorated, pointing the soul in the direction of eternal life with the Buddha. The memorial ceremony, conducted unpretentiously by a monk, occurs on the seventh day in an atmosphere of marked dignity and modesty.

  Jews and Muslims eschew embalming and autopsies. However, there are instances when the coroner, for legal considerations, commands an autopsy even if the family protests due to religious sensibilities. Ironically, the Hebrew Bible specifically records that Joseph was embalmed in Egypt before his body was transported to the Promised Land. So a lot of these faith-driven customs and traditions have evolved and are not consistent with scriptural texts. Clerics have simply invented them.

  I don’t impose interment within twenty-four hours in my faith tradition because I believe we must be both reasonable and pragmatic. Very few extended families all live in the same locality anymore. People require time to travel from other states or provinces or even other countries. After all, what’s more important: that the funeral take place according to what’s in some old tomes written by certain members of a long-abandoned demographic, or that people be allowed to arrive and support the immediate family? Give folks an extra day or two to form a circle of comfort.

  Since a Christian funeral is usually held within a week after a person has died, the period of time from death to burial is established de facto as the time of mourning. Most will return to work as soon as this bereavement period has ended. Jews have a post-funeral interval known as shiva, which actually means “seven.” But rarely do American Jews remain at home and out of circulation for a full seven days; it now tends to be two to three days. Muslims maintain a firmer pattern of three days of bereavement and devotions at home, with visitors offering sustenance and care. For Muslim widows, the period is extended to four days, and they are forbidden to interact with men during this time lest the man be a potential new suitor.

  Now What?

  No religious doctrine can be proven
wiser than any other, and the only established and universal fact is that people die and survivors grieve. It’s also easy to notice a pattern of similarities among the several faith traditions mentioned here when it comes to bereavement. Suffering, souls, survival, and sanctity all pervade the human condition. President John F. Kennedy, speaking just five months before his tragic death, declared, “For, in the final analysis, our most basic common link is that we all inhabit this small planet. We all breathe the same air. We all cherish our children’s futures. And we are all mortal.”15

  Death is the common denominator of life. So what are our best options for beneficial behavior and good recovery when we become the grieving? Perhaps the most repeated and most conclusive question that people ask after the loss of a loved one is “Should I just stay home and weep for several days?” In other words, what do I do?

  You certainly should consider whether to jump immediately into the normal pattern of things. This probably will not avail you. Don’t go to the movies the day after the funeral or back to work because you are determined to establish that “everything will be normal. That is what he wanted.” I believe the dead want to be commemorated and remembered in the manner in which they lived. If someone was fairly religious, it’s good to honor his memory with some rituals. If someone did not particularly practice a faith, there is no context to suddenly become observant—unless you yourself happen to be devout. How the departed lived is your guide to how he or she should be remembered. But the key is not to rush through the process, regardless of how the process takes shape.

  Don’t try to be stoic; it only stifles recovery. Let people take care of you. Allow others to worry about the coffee and the food platters and the arriving flowers. Let go; this is a tender transition. You need to sob and then you need to be angry with the person who left (which is perfectly normal), and then you need to declare out loud how much you miss him or her. There are well-documented stages in grief elucidated by a number of intuitive and learned authorities on death and bereavement, such as the aforementioned Elisabeth Kübler-Ross, David Kessler, and others.

  You need to rest your broken heart and heal it with the compassion, wisdom, and sustenance of family and friends. I have already stressed how important it is to lean into your grief and to be aware of the emotional and psychological dangers lurking if you sidestep the pain. It’s not about how long you stay home; it’s about how you stay home. Home is the safest sanctuary in the world. As a high school teacher taught me decades ago, “home” is the most beautiful word in any language. It’s the safest place to be, particularly at a time of sorrow.

  Grief knows no clock and it surely does not comply with a business schedule. At home, you can cry when you want, shriek when you need to, wear what you wish, and, if you are inclined, pray in any fashion that soothes your soul—with or without prepared text or lyrics. However many days you stay at home, whether it’s two days or seven, you are protecting your raw psyche from a frenetic world that demands your accession to program and data and bosses and noise and the banalities that simply drain you exactly at the time you are feeling empty.

  The conversations, the caresses, the shared memories, and the informative silences that take place at home with loved ones and close friends are often therapeutic and enriching. Take a moment to chuckle about the sometimes funny and familiar traits and habits of the person who has died. There is great release and recuperation in these bursts of laughter. In this sheltering environment, you slowly adjust to the new reality even as your moods shift and your soul is alternately flustered and calmed.

  We learn a lot about our friends during this time of bereavement. Most of them arrive selflessly, without fanfare, and with the pure intention of serving our needs. They are present and earnest and empathetic. They open the doors for other visitors, pour the coffee, arrange the platters, and clean up the scattered cups and dishes. More importantly, they bear our laments and dry our tears.

  And then there are others who strangely vanish from sight or don’t even call at this bittersweet threshold of friendship. “I can’t go over there now,” some people will say. “It’s too upsetting. I can’t deal with it.” Some grievers have told me in the aftermath, “I found out who my friends really are. Some people really surprised me by being there. Others really surprised me by never showing up or even calling or dropping a line.”

  Many people don’t “go over there” because they dread the environment of a household in mourning. They can’t know or imagine the pain that is sometimes caused by their absence. It is a worthwhile experience to visit and thus show respect. One generally grows and gains insight and satisfaction through such a sojourn. Jews regard it as a mitzvah—a good deed. Christians see it as a showing of mercy. It is an act of charity and revelation that soothes the heart of both the giver and receiver. It can help you make peace with your own mortality.

  After the Funeral

  I recall two exchanges that occurred during the shiva at home following my father’s sudden death in 1976. One was terribly distracting, the other remarkably considerate and uplifting.

  My father died while playing handball at the local community center—in spite of being warned by doctors to avoid the strenuous sport. He had suffered a mild heart attack three years prior. Nonetheless, given that he appeared vital and robust at forty-five years old, there was considerable shock and disbelief at his death among his family and friends.

  Our house filled up with visitors after the burial, which took place hurriedly and within twenty-four hours of the fatal heart attack. Most of the guests were truly shaken, solicitous, attentive, and helpful to my devastated mother and us three children. Not a lot of talking went on; the long interludes of silence in the crowded living room said everything.

  On the second or third day, a gentleman appeared whom we knew only marginally. I doubted that he actually knew my father personally; some people seem to regularly appear at houses of mourning—for the food, maybe, or out of curiosity. This man’s connections to our family were dubious. The only commonality was that he also frequented the Jewish Community Center where my dad had died. He entered and sat down during a lull in the throng of visitors across from where my mother, brother, sister, and I sat on hard mourner’s chairs (a practice in Orthodox Judaism). Our torn black ribbons were pinned to our clothing and our hearts lay broken beneath that clothing.

  “So,” the man asked presumptuously, “what actually happened to your dad?”

  None of us could or wanted to answer. The unwelcome guest was sending us right back to the beginning of our bewilderment over my father’s death. His inquiry was selfish, inappropriate, and unsettling. I eventually attempted to answer politely, “He had a heart attack at the Jewish Center.” I formed the words in my mouth but they did not emerge. It was too surreal a moment. I could not distinguish between the fresh pain that resulted from the question and my indignation that it was even asked. Fortunately, for this tiresome man and us, another visitor deftly and discreetly whisked him out the front door, replete with a little plate of pastry and fruit.

  The next night, it was warm and muggy in our house. The general shock had begun to give way to a watery, aching realization that this was not a bad dream. Sometimes, the hardest days are a few days after the death as the initial numbness begins to disintegrate. The funeral, the tributes, the gatherings, and the outpourings yield to the comprehension that somebody’s place is empty and that he or she is simply not coming back.

  Despite the heat, the house again filled with people. Soon a small group of my classmates from the local rabbinical school entered. I looked up gratefully at my friend Peter. Peter was a tall, lanky man who prayed hard and played the banjo. He hailed from Texas, and once strummed for a Jewish cowboy rock band. He stood before me as I sat weeping on the mourner’s stool. Peter did not say a word. He took his bare hand and, with a motion as gentle as that of an angel, wiped the sweat off my brow and the tears off my cheek. It was an act of complete benevolence that I have never fo
rgotten. Not a word was exchanged. He had spoken with his eyes and made me feel stronger.

  My friends prayed the evening service with us. This act of drawing us into a circle of accustomed devotions and chants soothed and comforted. They did not linger too long—another practical measure that visitors to a house of mourning ought to consider. As with most things, your instincts will tell you what to say or not say, when to come and when to leave. Stay only as you are needed; it is not a social occasion. Don’t ask questions of bereaved people without the context of truly knowing them and the one they have lost.

  Regardless of how people help or don’t help in the days after a funeral, their presence, in some ways, also creates a bubble. It is therapeutic and valuable, and we are helped to transition because of it, but it is also a kind of buffer. That is to say, we don’t really quite confront the hard wall of the truth until everyone has finally left the house on the last day of the agreed period at home.

  Be prepared for the thud of harsh loneliness when the door is shut for last time and the final visitor has departed. This is one of the toughest moments—life has to resume, we must return to work, and we are required to realign to living with a hole in the soul.

  In its Patient and Visitor Guide, the Mayo Clinic states: “Experts advise those grieving to realize they can’t control the process and to prepare for varying stages of grief. Understanding why they’re suffering can help, as can talking to others and trying to resolve issues that cause significant emotional pain, such as feeling guilty for a loved one’s death. Mourning can last for months or years. Generally, pain is tempered as time passes and as the bereaved adapts to life without a loved one.”