When my mother died last June, after several years of dementia, I was struck anew by the great wisdom to be found in Jewish mourning practices. We were fortunate that she had lived to be almost 95 and in excellent physical health until the end.
Not entirely consciously, I had been mourning her for years, because of losing parts of her gradually to dementia. During shiva week I found a letter she had written to me when I was in college. It reminded me – I had actually forgotten! – how close we had been. I imagine that I had been blocking it out as too painful to deal with while she gradually and continually strayed farther from that person I thought of as my mom.
During shiva week I reread some of the passages in the Talmud tractate, Moed Katan, which considers many mourning practices. The piece I’ve known the longest and have counted on to guide me when visiting those who have been recently bereaved is from page 28b:
Rabbi Yochanan said, “The consolers may not say a thing until the mourner does.”
When visiting a house of mourning I don’t have to think what I’m going to say. Rather, I don’t say anything until the mourner does, and then take my cue from there. Are we crying together, sitting silently, or reminiscing? It’s not my call. When people came to my house for shiva minyan, they knew to take care of me and yield to my lead for how we would proceed.
Here’s a story from Moed Katan 28a that carries much guidance. It’s my own very free and abridged translation/interpretation.
When Rabbi Yishmael’s children died, four sages came to comfort him. They agreed not to interrupt each other, and they waited for him to speak first. Rabbi Yishmael cried, “It’s my fault my children died. Please, please help me!” Rabbi Tarfon responded, “We all mourn them.” Rabbi Yosei HaGelili answered, “They were good people.” Rabbi Elazar ben Azarya said, “Your children did much good.” Lastly, Rabbi Akiva added, “They outshone the powerful, the rich, and the famous. We miss them.”
What struck me the most was that they did not speak against what Rabbi Yishmael said. When he blamed himself for his children’s deaths, they did not contradict him. How tempting it would be to say, “No! You had nothing to do with it!” But his pain was intense, and however he needed to express that in the moment was not to be questioned. Naturally, they waited for him to ask them to speak. Finally, they gave their impressions of those who had died.
My friends and family gathered in person and online for two different sorts of mourners’ minyan. The most comforting thing was to hear stories about my mom – things I had never known. Their memories of her reminded me that she had been important in many other people’s lives as well as in my own. It was the beginning of remembering the ways she and I had supported each other my whole life long.
The dress I was wearing the day my mother died still bears the scar – the resewn kria tear – of that morning’s fresh mourning. It reminds me to visit with her spirit every day as I say Kaddish Yatom (literally “Orphan’s Kaddish”) and know that she will always be a part of me.
