Nichum Aveilim -- for whom? To absolve us of our
social duty? Or to offer genuine comfort to the mourners. To
provide merit for the deceased himself in his final Judgment
by recounting his good deeds.
A simple, universal plea...
Not so long ago, my classmate sat shiva for her father
for an hour in her apartment in Jerusalem before flying to
America to join her family. As we sat with her, the silence
was palpable. Knowing that one waits for the mourner to speak
first, I sat and waited. Then I hesitantly shared with her
the fact that my husband had learned together with her father
at some time. Would she like me to share some of his
memories? Almost jumping out of her low seat, she exclaimed
eagerly, "Oh, yes!"
With this reaction in mind, I would like to share some of my
own recent experiences with a prayer that we all, in whatever
circumstances, be more careful and successful in carrying out
the mitzva of consoling the bereaved in a proper and
meaningful way.
*
I was living through a most shocking experience. Shocking,
that my ever-giving, caring, very busy and basically healthy
father had been taken from us so very unexpectedly and
suddenly. We all grappled with the reality of the situation
that it was Hashem Who had taken him. Period.
His body had been taken to Eretz Yisroel but his soul
lingered in the house in which we had grown up and now, in
which we were sitting shiva. We were shell shocked.
The people coming in, the close friends, neighbors,
relatives, people in the community, were all, in themselves,
a statement. The very fact that they walked through the door
gave us a strong message. They didn't even have to say
anything; their presence made the statement. To me it
said: "This is real. We came for a reason. Your father did,
indeed, pass away." It brought the painful reality home with
care. Just by walking through the door and sitting down.
All the more so those who sat with tears pouring down their
faces. I cannot explain it, but those real tears of their
pain were a comfort for me, and continue to be as those faces
reappear in my mind's eye.
And they didn't have to say anything.
How can I thank a friend who traveled via five buses and a
ride on a trip that took approximately 8-9 hours one
way, on a Thursday, returning home late Friday -- to offer
her comforting presence for less than an hour's time? Since I
cannot express my gratitude, I can only pray, and be assured,
that she and her esteemed husband, and no doubt, her children
who helped her orchestrate that `excursion', will see
unending reward for this selfless giving.
You may be wondering what she said. I'm sure she said
something. What I specifically remember is that when
she walked in, I burst into sobs. I put my head down on
folded arms and just cried. Later, in the kitchen, I remember
speaking to her. About what? I shared some of my father's
outstanding virtues, some of his unusual acts. But what
really comforted and touched me was her being there with me,
for me, her understanding my state of physical and emotional
depletion, my exhaustion. She kept my needs first and kept
her visit short -- as short as she felt I needed.
She asked if she could call her ride to pick her up. The
first time she asked, I said, "Soon," and she waited until
she felt I needed my sleep more than her presence.
One of my aunts noted, a month later, how she felt that the
hundreds of people coming to pray and offer their comfort
gave her the distinct feeling of being in a "warm bath,
enveloped in that warmth." Incredibly, she felt a strong
bonding with people she didn't even know!
*
Perhaps people don't realize that there are halochos
governing condolences. They are meant to be kept. They are
designed to serve a real purpose down here for the mourners.
For example, "Ordinary conversation customarily conducted in
the house of mourning is only a burden, not a comfort." The
Zohar notes that before a person goes in to console a
mourner, he should carefully consider what he intends to say
and how he hopes to comfort.
Even just sitting quietly and not speaking, and before
leaving, uttering the customary prayer of "Hamokom
yenachem..." shows "respect for the mourner and is
considered comforting him."
Upon entering or leaving a mourner's home, the visitor should
not extend greetings to him. One should not tell the mourner,
"What can you do? There is no way to change things," because
this is an insult to Heaven, implying that if it were
possible, one would change things. Rather, one should
lovingly accept the decree of Hashem.
*
Misplaced Attention
One of the most painful scenarios, replayed dozens of times
during the shiva (and I am positive at every
shiva): While the mourners need to hear words of
comfort [and while the deceased is being judged in Heaven,
and every merit said in his favor will affect his Final
Judgment], need to be reassured how great the deceased was in
so many ways, how much he had touched people's lives, how
much he had accomplished during his stay on earth, and in my
father's case -- a relatively short stay -- my mother was
often asked, "What happened? How did it happen?" And when the
answer was not sufficiently explicit, she was pressed to fill
in the details!
Who cares? We, who were sitting shiva, knew what
happened. What did it help us to talk about how Hashem
decided the last hours would be on this earth? People were
callously forcing us to address questions we didn't wish to
answer. They were wasting precious time in making us
repeat over and again the mundane, insignificant and at this
point, totally irrelevant technical facts regarding how Abba
was taken from us: the medical aspects, how long it took, how
hard Ima tried to save him, how long it took for the
ambulance to come, was he alive when he finally arrived at
the hospital, who was with him and so on. Fill in the blanks
for each different case of mourning...
We were so very vulnerable at the time. We simply didn't have
the emotional or physical energy to try to steer the
conversation, or to explain that we had already told the
details four times that morning and we wanted to hear
their memories. Please.
Late at night, alone with my mother, I couldn't bring myself
to ask her whether she wanted to repeat "the story" another
dozen times, whether it helped her in any way, or if she
preferred that I steer the conversation on to other tracks.
I, and later, my aunt who confided to me the same feeling,
felt her too vulnerable.
A pity none of us could muster that courage. We were
powerless to stop the waste of our precious shiva,
and, unknowingly, those conversations stole from us the
comfort we could have received. Instead, they robbed us of
vital energies and made us feel miserable.
I felt like saying, "You ostensibly came to show us your
solidarity. So just sit quietly and share in our numbness,
our shock, if you have nothing to add and uplift. But how
could you smile and greet one another as if it were a
luncheon or social gathering? How could you -- three feet
from a fresh widow, fresh orphans -- talk about any other
subject other than their loss? But certainly, not its
technical aspects..."
Then there were the babies, the adorable grandchildren. How
could anyone sit within three feet of us and coo and laugh
and play with them? We would have been more than glad for you
to have taken them into the kitchen, or even out of the
house, for a walk. One neighbor removed them hungry and
returned them fed, one neighbor took a child with a suspected
ear infection (as a result of the airplane flight) to a
doctor. We have unending gratitude to such heroes, one of
them a cousin from out of town who took three days off from
work to come and care for us and these babies, to field the
phone calls for us and let us sit and listen to the genuine
words of comfort when they came our way.
"The decision was taken out of our hands"
One caring man shared something so beautiful with us that
through my tears, I asked him chokingly to repeat himself for
the rest of the family. He explained that not long ago, as
chaplain and rabbi of a nursing home, my father had helped
him when his father had been very ill. His father had been in
and out of hospitals and a decision had to be made about
where his father would live, as he would need maximal
assistance. Then, suddenly, the father died. During the
shiva my father came to offer his support. With much
concern and caring, Abba said to the family, "It seems that
the decision was taken out of our hands."
Such a simple message.
Could there have been a bigger comfort? To them, in their
sorrow, and now, to us, in ours. It was as if Abba himself
had come to comfort us personally through this
messenger.
May no one else know from this suffering. However, until the
Angel of Death is himself nullified for all time, we need to
know the laws and intuit the reason behind them. Our presence
in offering condolences is a comfort in and of itself. If
the mourner wants us to share our positive memories, we
should be prepared (in advance) to do so. But we should avoid
asking about the details of the last moments, the medical
aspects and the other trivialities and irrelevancies, unless
indicated and initiated by the mourner.
May we do the right thing at this crucial time, for the sake
of the deceased, that of his family, and for our sake as
well.
May all mourners be comforted together with the mourners of
Zion and Jerusalem. Speedily and in our days.
