Day 30: The Jewish Community

Today marks the 30th day of my challenge, but I missed a day yesterday. No problem, I will devote an extra hour to writing this weekend, but let me explain what happened. 

I sat shiva, in person this time, on Christmas night. The deceased was incredibly young — young enough I can count the years from Jesse’s age to theirs on one hand. 

And that fully freaked me out. 

His widow observed the fifth and final night of shiva and his children stayed home with friends. His parents mourned their not-quite-middle-aged son. 

It became just too much. 

I could not pick up my pen yesterday and write about it; I could not pick up my pen yesterday and not write about it. So, I just did not pick up my pen. 

Rebecca instructed me to write and describe the custom of sitting shiva and write about the Jewish community. Wonderful ideas and she’s not wrong, so here it goes.  

In Judaism, when someone dies, their loved ones attempt to bury their body as quickly as possible and someone must stay with the body until it is buried. Then, in addition to the burial and funeral or memorial service, the family sits shiva for up to seven days. 

During shiva, the immediate family invites friends, family and their synagogue community to come and mourn with them. It usually occurs in the family home with folks bringing food so the family does not have to worry about feeding themselves for a few days.

The community assumes the family cannot function normally so soon after the death, and thus others can also take on roles like laundry and cleaning up. A rabbi or lay leader might lead a prayer service, or the bereaved may share stories about and remember the person who died. 

And they are incredibly sad, shivas. 

People eat and pray and cry. Folks pay their respects to the family and also offer support in a time of need, without requiring the family to do anything or go anywhere.

When my dad died, we sat shiva for one night at my in-laws house. I still remember every single person who showed up for me that night in kindness and support. I will never forget the people who sent cards or brought food or asked me about it I stood up to recite the mourner’s kaddish that entire next year. 

When Rebecca talks about the Jewish community, or any religious or otherwise organized community, she means this. 

The community becomes a safety net woven of hundreds of people, strengthened not by a single connection but by hundreds of relationships and acts of kindness — plus the vital element of standardizing what people can do to help.

Thousands of years of experience in what feels good and supportive, what helps people navigate grief successfully, have honed these Jewish best practices for mourning. Everyone acts quickly and efficiently because the community shared a proscribed set of actions and expectations. 

Said plan deviates only for a specific reason. For example, the family held the shiva we attended at shul instead of at home, so the young children could opt in or not each day. 

If could do it over, I would have sat shiva for more than one night for my dad. Maybe not five or seven nights, but more than one. 

Perhaps the reason for sitting so many nights of shiva lies in how grief changes over time. An extended shiva period provides the community many chances to show up, and allows mourners to feel so supported (and perhaps crowded) for so long it may even start to feel a bit old.

And I would have done it in my home. 

I wish I had not worried about whether it was clean enough, good enough, or big enough for all those people. 

I now see the elegance of the tradition as it exists: filling a house with life, light, warmth, food and people — instead of just grief — at least for a few hours. And most importantly, not expecting the person in deepest mourning to do anything. Not change out of their pajamas, not get into a car, not walk somewhere. 

Not even get off the couch. Someone can bring you a blanket and a cup of tea, read to your children and load your stupid dishwasher. 

And by being that open, you embrace your humanness without glossing up, shining up, or even dressing up. 

You, the bereaved, must feel comfortable with your vulnerability in a way I was not 6 years ago.

You can accept the gift of love and support from your community by allowing them to do what they want and are built to do. 

And it serves as a gift to them too, if you let them do it.

This reminds me of the scene in Encanto (excellent movie, btw, spoilers to follow!) where the entire town shows up to rebuild La Casita Madrigal. Yes, because the magical madrigals have helped those individuals over the years, but also because communities help each other. Evolution has programmed our genes for reciprocity. 

In the movie, as in life, the magic happens when things fall apart. 

The magic happens when the cracks show through, when we give others the gift of being there for us, when life brings us so low we must acknowledge needing help, being weak, imperfect and vulnerable. 

Being human, as it were. Just like everyone else.

After my dad died, the rabbi who would lead my dad’s shiva called to speak to me. We arranged a meeting so I could tell him all about my dad in advance of the shiva, but I had to clarify. 

“So, I will come to your office on Wednesday at 1?” I said. 

“No, dear,” he said kindly, knowingly, “We come to you.”