Do Jews Believe in An Afterlife?

By Susan Esther Barnes

Recently, someone asked me, “Jewish people don’t believe in life after death, right?” I can certainly see how someone would get that impression.

When I’m channel surfing, sometimes I come across Christian songs or programs, and they seem to talk a lot about the afterlife. It seems like they’re always admonishing you to accept Jesus and be good or you won’t get into heaven, or they’re looking forward to their reward in heaven, or, on occasion, they mention non-Christians or sinners going to Hell. It’s pretty clear they believe in an afterlife.

Jews, on the other hand, don’t talk about the afterlife much. I can’t tell you when was the last time I heard a sermon that even mentioned life after death (if ever), which is saying something, since I generally hear about three sermons a week (two in synagogue and one via podcast).

Like many subjects in Judaism, there are different opinions about what happens after we die. Some people think once you’re dead, that’s it. It’s over. Others think the spirit lives on in some form or other, and some believe we will be resurrected when Moshiach (the Messiah) comes.

Rather than focusing on the uncertain afterlife, most Jews instead focus on the current world. It is our job in this world to perform God’s mitzvot (commandments), and to try to make this world a better place. We’ll worry about what happens in the afterlife, if any, if and when we get there.

Part of the uncertainty arises because the Sefer Torah, or the Five Books of Moses, doesn’t have much to say on the subject. It does mention Sheol a few times, which seems to be a pit or underground place, and it generally refers to someone going “down to Sheol,” but Sheol isn’t described in any detail.

According to Heaven and Hell in Jewish Tradition posted at MyJewishLearning.com, Ecclesiastes and Job “insist that all of the dead go down to Sheol, whether good or evil,” so it isn’t like the Christian version of Hell which is only for the bad folk.

Later, rabbis began to use the term olam haba (world to come) to refer to the afterlife. This is generally understood to be the place we go after Moshiach comes and the dead are resurrected, and it may be kind of like Heaven.

So what happens in between?

There is a belief that when a person dies, their spirit hovers near the thing that is most familiar to it, namely, the body that so recently housed that spirit. That is one of the reasons why we have a person sit with the body of a dead person for the entire time between death and burial. We don’t want the spirit to think the body has been abandoned. It is also one of the reasons why we treat dead bodies with care and respect.

In theory, once the body has been properly buried, the dead person’s spirit is relieved that the body has been well cared for, and that the body has been returned to the earth. The spirit is then free to move on to whatever comes next.

Of course, none of us can know what, if anything, happens after death, until we experience it. I like that Judaism doesn’t claim to have all the answers to mysteries like these. I like that, rather than dwelling on the unknowable afterlife, we focus on this life.

“L’chaim,” we say as a toast, “To life.” Jewish tradition tells us that if we save a life, it is like saving an entire world. “Choose life,” God tells us. Ask a Jewish woman if she has a necklace with a Hebrew word on it, and she will probably show you one that says chai – life. Life is the focus of this world.

As for death, we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.

What I Get Out of the High Holy Days

By Susan Esther Barnes

This post was inspired by a comment by “CA” on a post called Another Aish Video Insults Our Intelligence on Dov Bear’s blog.

CA, like many other people, has some trouble with some of the High Holy Day themes. He compares God during this time to Santa Claus. Presumably, this is because Santa, in theory, gives coal to the bad boys and girls, and only brings good stuff to the good ones. Similarly, Jewish tradition says that the High Holy days is the time when God writes our names in either the Book of Life or the Book of Death for the coming year, and that our actions can influence which book God will choose for us.

“Naughty or Nice,” he says, “you get what's coming to you.” That’s the theory, anyway, but as CA observes, “Unfortunately, this bears no relation to reality…The undeniable fact is that sooner or later the big G-guy is going to write everyone for the book of Death.”

Because of this, as well as long services and “pompous rabbinical sermons,” CA doesn’t like the High Holy Days. “About the only thing I like is the food,” he says. Which strikes me as odd, since Yom Kippur is a day of fasting, but I’m sure he must be talking about the Rosh Hashanah food, and anyway, that’s beside the point.

I really can’t argue with CA when s/he points out that no matter how good we are, we’re all going to die. Not only that, but every year there are people who die even though they seem to be living a reasonably righteous life, and others continue to live even though have done some pretty nasty stuff.

Although the whole Books of Life and Death thing is part of the High Holy Days, it’s only a part. If that part makes you uncomfortable, fine. There is still plenty more to the Days of Awe than that, and the fact that you don’t like one part doesn’t mean you should write off the whole thing.

In fact, the High Holy Days start out with Kol Nidre, which means “All vows.” It starts out with us being forgiven for any vows we made (or are going to make, depending on which interpretation you follow), which we are unable to keep. A holiday that starts out with forgiveness can’t be all that bad, right?

Later, we ask God for forgiveness for a list of stuff we have done wrong and, presumably, we receive God’s forgiveness. That sounds good to me, too.

It’s not all automatic, though. We are reminded that God forgives us for sins against God, but for sins against another person, God forgives us only if we have made peace with that person. I like this part, too. It encourages us to ask for forgiveness from those we have wronged, and to forgive those who have wronged us.

CA says, “I don't see why I need forgiveness from God if I do something wrong, and why I should wait until one time a year. If I hurt someone, I prefer to apologize right away and clear the air quickly.” The good news for CA is, there nothing in the liturgy that says we need to wait. I agree that whenever someone’s feelings are hurt, the best thing is to make peace as soon as possible.

What the High Holy Days provide, however, is an opportunity to reflect on the past year, and to ask ourselves, “Have I made peace with everyone I need to, or do I still have some baggage lying around to which I need to attend?” It also gives us a deadline. The holidays remind us we don’t have forever to make peace. We may die next year, or even sooner. The time to make peace, the holidays remind us, is now.

I also happen to like the High Holy Day music, and I’m lucky enough to be a member of a synagogue in which the sermons are, as a general rule, thoughtful and moving. The services are long, but I’m never bored; in fact, I enjoy them. Plus, I find the long services help to distract me from my hunger during the Yom Kippur fast.

So although I don’t believe who lives and dies in a given year is based on a Divine moral judgment, I find I get a lot out of the High Holy Days every year. I hope that CA, and others of a similar mindset, will put aside the parts s/he doesn’t like, and will instead focus on the parts of the holidays that have the opportunity to provide him/her with a sense of meaning.

The First Week

By Susan Esther Barnes

I learned of my father's death early Saturday evening. An email went out from the synagogue to the congregation on Sunday morning. On Sunday evening, on less than 12 hours' notice, there were 30 people in my home for a minyan.

On the way over, Rabbi Stacy had stopped at the synagogue to pick up the prayer books we use at a mourning service, but neither she nor her husband could get the key to the office to work, so they arrived without them. We went through the entire service without the benefit of the prayer books, and nobody missed a word. Nobody missed a beat. There are those who think Reform Jews are ignorant and uneducated. I beg to differ.

When we rose and faced east for the Bar'chu, we looked out the windows over the small common area of trees and bushes behind my home. As we stood there, a man started to raise the blinds in a home across the way. Once they were up, he looked across at us. I am sure he wondered why there were a bunch of people here, standing at the window, looking out at him. After a moment, he closed the blinds again.

I know he had no way of knowing what was going on, but I couldn't help but think, "He is trying to close himself off from death. We are opening ourselves to death's reality. He would be better off if he would open the blinds and join us."

For the first couple of days, I couldn't sleep for more than a couple of hours at a time. I was tired. Time seemed to stretch out in a way it never has before. No one thing seemed to take a long time; it was just the accumulated weight of it all.

Then the cards and the emails started to arrive. As a member of the synagogue board of directors, I've been writing sympathy notes to congregants for a couple of years now. I tried to put a lot of thought into what I said in those notes.

On the receiving end of such notes for the first time, I noticed that some people wrote a paragraph or two, and some just signed their name to a pre-printed sympathy card. That is when I learned that it doesn't really matter what you write. Sure, it's nice to get a card that has something personal written in it. But at the end of the day, what matters is that the person took the time to send one. Whether they write something in it or not is greatly outweighed by the simple fact that they were thoughtful enough to send one.

On Thursday night, someone from the synagogue delivered a meal to our house. When I agreed to receive the meal, I didn't think it was a big deal. After all, I had been eating. But when I opened the bag and smelled the chicken, I realized it was the first hot, decent meal I'd had since the night before my father died. I've never had much patience for cooking, and I have even less now, so I had basically been snacking. Knowing that the meal came from the synagogue and was made with love made it that much better.

On Friday evening, my husband and I went to the synagogue. Normally I get there early to greet people at the front door. This time, we arrived just before services started, and there were others there to greet us.

My friend Judi sat with us in the rabbi's office and held my hand as services started. The beginning of the service is a series of joyful songs. Mourners traditionally don't enter the sanctuary until after L'cha Dodi, the song welcoming the Sabbath Bride, because we are not capable in joining in the joy of the opening songs at this time.

Usually I open the synagogue doors at the end of L'cha Dodi to "enable" the Sabbath Bride to come in. This time Judi and Ken opened the doors, and after the song, John and I walked in to take our seats.

When the time came for the prayer for healing, I realized that, although I had been saying my father's name for the last few years, I would no longer be asking for healing for him. I skipped his name, and went on to the name of my friend Mark, and Frank, the significant other of a friend at work. Then I started to cry, both because I could no longer say the prayer of healing for my father, and because I heard other people asking for healing for me.

At the Saturday morning service, I wrapped myself in my tallit (prayer shawl), so it completely covered my upper body below the neck. I didn't know I was going to do that, but it felt right to wrap myself in it that way. I was so grateful that I was in the habit of wearing a large, full tallit. Many people, especially women, wear a much smaller tallit, more like a large scarf, completely incapable of enveloping a person the way mine did.

For much of the service on both Friday and Saturday, I didn't sing or join in the prayers. I closed my eyes and listened. The sound of the congregation was unbelievably beautiful. I don't think they have any idea how beautiful they sound; I certainly had no idea before this past weekend, when I had been singing rather than really listening.

The songs felt like warm, gentle waves lapping over me. I felt raw, like my body was an open wound, which the waves of sound could not touch or heal. Yet the waves washed over me, surrounding me, creating a barrier between me and the rest of the world, assuring me that although they could not heal the hurt I am now feeling, they will embrace me and protect me from other hurts, and allow my healing process the space to begin on its own in its own time.

I am still in the time called anunit, the period between death and burial. I still don't know when the burial will be. Time is still moving at a freakishly slow pace. It feels like it's been a month since my father died.

It is possible that the only people at the burial will be my father's widow, my sister, my husband, and me. My sister asked me to say a few prayers at the burial. Rabbi Michael loaned me a copy of the rabbi manual he uses at life cycle events so I will have something appropriate to say.

I don't know how this is all going to play out over the coming weeks and months. I know I could have struggled through this on my own, but the incalculable value of going through this in the midst of a loving community is clear.

As I told Judi on Friday night, ever since I was 17, it has been my husband who has carried me through all the hardest times of my life. I am so grateful he doesn't have to do it alone any more.

Suspended in Mid Air

By Susan Esther Barnes

Baruch dayan ha'emet.

Everyone's grieving process is different. I wish mine were different than it is, but it isn't something I get to choose; it isn't something I can change. I call mine the Wile E. Coyote style of grieving.

My father, may his memory be a blessing, died on Saturday morning. I found out about it early Saturday evening. It is now very early on Monday morning - so early it is really still Sunday night.

I should be crying. At the very least, I should feel immersed in sadness.

My father was in and out of the hospital for a week before he died, but neither my sister nor I knew that before his death. I should be angry at his wife - now his widow - for depriving us of the opportunity to be there for him during the last days of his life.

Because he died two days before the start of Passover, instead of the normal seven day shiva mourning period (the word shiva even means seven), I only get about 48 hours. I should feel cheated out of the proper shiva period to which I thought I would be entitled.

Because his widow has chosen not to bury him for seven to ten days, I should feel horrified that his body will spend so much time on a cold shelf in a morgue, alone, without a shomer to watch over him.

I thought the shiva minyan (prayer service) we had on Sunday evening would help to move my grieving process along faster. I thought it would bring all these feelings out, but it did not. That is not how my grieving process works, and despite my wishes, it will not be rushed.

Instead, I am still mostly numb. Like in the old Road Runner cartoons, just after Wile E. Coyote has inadvertently run off a cliff, I am suspended in mid air. I am in the midst of a pregnant pause that stretches out beyond credulity, even though, to some extent, I understand something important has gone wrong.

Like Wile E. Coyote, I tentatively reach out with a paw, feeling for the ground which is no longer beneath me. For me, this takes the form of my newfound inability to sleep for more than a couple hours at a time.

Here I will hang, for an unknown period of time, before I am able to look down and suddenly begin my plunge to the valley floor below.

It does me no good to envy those who, in what appears to me to be a more realistic fashion, drop immediatley after running off the cliff edge. It does me no good to tell myself the ground under my feet is gone and I cannot turn around and regain the cliff top.

No, against my will, I must pause here, hanging like Wile E. Coyote in mid air, waiting for the inevitable plunge to come at some random moment of its own choosing.

But I have one thing Wile E. Coyote did not have. And that is the knowledge that when that plunge comes, my husband and my community will be here to catch me.

I Don't Want to Have Passover This Year

By Susan Esther Barnes

Usually, Passover is one of my favorite holidays. A celebration of freedom, surrounded by matzah, brisket, chopped liver, and four cups of wine - what's not to love?

At some point a few years ago, I told my friend Rose, may her memory be a blessing, that I didn't like my seder plate. This is the special plate we use at Passover, which holds the symbolic Passover foods like an egg, bitter herbs, charoset, etc. I bought it because I needed one, and it was the one I disliked the least.

At the end of 2008, when my husband and I moved into our new home, Rose gave us one of her seder plates as a housewarming gift. Pictured above, it's lovely. I like it much better than my old plate, both because I prefer how it looks, as well as because it's from Rose.

In 2009, after we used Rose's seder plate for our first Passover in our new home, I wrote her a second thank-you note for her gift.

In 2010, when Rose was lying in bed, slowly dying, I thanked her again for the plate. She said she was glad she had given it to me, and to know it would serve as a reminder of her.

I have been saying the Mourner's Kaddish for Rose every week for eight months now. One would think that would be long enough for me to realize the reality and finality of her death. Yet somehow, similar to how her absence at Yom Kippur hit me hard, the thought of celebrating Passover for the first time after her death hurts more than I had expected.

I know it isn't Passover that I don't want. What I don't want - the thing that, like Passover, is inexorably advancing toward me no matter how much I wish I could somehow avoid it - is having to come to terms with the reality of a world without Rose.

Life is Fragile

By Susan Esther Barnes

I spent a couple of hours this afternoon at the memorial service of a man who died suddenly, and too young. Parents should not have to bury their children in any case, but a week ago this man, his parents, his wife, and his young daughter all thought he was fine, and now he's dead.

In a remarkable service, with over 800 people in attendance, we learned that although he technically was survived by only a couple of siblings, an astonishing number of men considered this man to be their brother.

From the boy he met in grade school by throwing rocks at him, to his brothers-in-law, to his work colleague, we heard story after story of his sense of humor, his kindness, his generosity, his gift of expressing interest in people and making them feel at ease.

But one day last week he realized something was wrong, and he went to the hospital, and within days he was gone. And in his final act of generosity, he donated his organs, giving life to others who will now be able to go on to leave their hospital beds, and hug their families, as he will not.

I was grateful to the rabbi for saying he does not believe the death of this man was God's will, but that it was an accident of nature. He said God did not will it that this man's daughter should grow up without her father or that the rest of his family and dear friends should lose him so soon.

It serves as a reminder to us all: Life is fragile. Be thankful for today. We never know what tomorrow may bring.

Collateral Damage

By Susan Esther Barnes

I keep thinking about how Congresswoman Giffords, the one person the shooter in Tucson last week really wanted to kill, seems to be doing so well, while a half dozen others died who just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

That's what they call "collateral damage," the damage that is incidental to the shooter's desired outcome. Not to minimize the loss of the family and friends of these people - not at all - it just makes a senseless shooting even more senseless. The pain and grief and tragedy are the same, and everyone there (other than the shoorter himself) was blameless.

The point I'm getting around to is this: collateral damage, when it manifests itself as killed and injured people, is easily seen and recognized. But there is another kind of collateral damage which is less visible, and which people seem more likely to overlook.

An example of this less visible collateral damage arose in a conversation I had online last week in the comments section of a post I had read. A person from "Jewish Voice for Peace" asserted that shouting down Prime Minister Netanyahu so he could not speak does not constitute bullying.

Setting aside what I think was a false premise on his part (namely, that powerful people cannot, by definition, be bullied, and/or that it is okay to bully powerful people), he completely ignored that the Prime Minister and the hecklers were not the only people in the room.

When this sort of thing happens, or at least when it seems to make the news, is when there are a roomful of people who have come for the express purpose of hearing what the speaker is intending to say. When one shouts down a scheduled speaker, one is not only thwarting the will of the speaker himself (or herself), but is acting in a bullying and agressive manner toward everyone in the audience.

These audience members are the ones suffering the forgotten collateral damage in these events; I seldom hear them mentioned. Their frustration and anger remains unseen and unheard.

One could argue that maybe it isn't such a big deal. One evening is ruined, perhaps. Maybe the organization that did the shouting will lose some potential supporters who were audience members but who are now turned off by their tactics.

But there are other examples of collateral damage that we don't ever seem to talk about.

There are plenty of discussions about the death penalty that talk about deterrence, about disproportionate numbers of people from certain racial or economic backgrounds being effected, about revenge, etc. In all these discussions, the collateral damage is being ignored.

When a person is executed, why doesn't anyone talk about the effect on the officers who have to guard her in her last days? What about the poor souls who have to drag the condemmed person out of his cell and strap him down, knowing that they are participating in the killing of a helpless person? What about the doctor who has sworn to save lives, but who is defying his or her oath by administering the killing drugs?

The psychological effects on these people must be deep and lasting. Why doesn't anyone ever talk about them? Must they remain as the invisible collateral damage?

She is Pure

By Susan Esther Barnes

My day started with the strangest shopping trip I’ve ever been on. The evening before, I had been at the phone bank where we were calling congregants to ask for donations to our annual Tradition of Giving Campaign.

While I was there, Rabbi Lezak called me into a private room to let me know a member of our congregation had just died. She had been suffering from cancer for some time, and I had agreed to be one of the people to perform taharah for her, the ritual washing of her body and preparing her for burial.

I had been preparing for this for about a year, ever since Rabbi Lezak had said we were planning to expand our Bikkur Cholim group, a group of people who visit the sick, to become a Chevra Kadisha, a holy society or group of friends, to perform taharah. Although our congregation was formed over 50 years ago, to my knowledge we had never before had a Chevra Kadisha there.

I read about it, and I attended a seminar on it in San Francisco. I also attended the series of classes Rabbi Lezak offered to us at the synagogue. One evening, Sue Lefelstein, the Associate Executive Director of Sinai Memorial Chapel in Lafayette, came out to give us a copy of the procedure manual they use, and to explain the process.

The night before the congregant I mentioned above died, about 20 to 25 of us went to Sinai Memorial Chapel where Sue led us as we performed taharah on a manikin for practice.

When I first thought about doing taharah, it really freaked me out. It seemed like an incredibly scary thing to do. Then, last summer, my friend Rose died, may her memory be a blessing. I sat with her in the morning on the day she died, and suddenly taharah seemed much less frightening. How could Rose’s body ever be scary? But she had chosen not to have taharah done for her.

As I got closer to actually doing it, it became even less scary. While I stood in the room at Sinai Memorial, watching the washing of the manikin, I found myself feeling completely calm. I was prepared.

Except we as a Chevra Kadisha weren’t entirely prepared. We had only just finished the training the night before when we learned of this congregant’s death. If she and her family had chosen Sinai Memorial, or any Jewish establishment, as her mortuary, they would have had all the taharah supplies available to us on hand.

This family had chosen a non-religious mortuary, however, which meant we couldn’t be sure what supplies they would have available to us. And because our tradition is to bury people within 48 hours of death whenever feasible, that meant we would be doing taharah on her the next day. Thus, my sudden shopping trip for taharah supplies.

Fortunately, Sue, the angel from Sinai Memorial, had given us a list of things we would need. I grabbed my list and headed to Target, arriving just as they opened at 8am. For all I knew, the mortuary might be ready for us as early as 9:30 or 10, and I didn’t want to hold things up.

As I walked down the aisles, I thought about my odd list and how I didn’t want to say anything that might get me arrested. For instance, when I asked a clerk where I could find nail polish remover, I thought, “If she says something like, ‘We recommend this one because it has aloe which is good for the long term health of your nails,’ it would probably be a bad idea for me to respond with something like, ‘Oh, I’m not worried about that. We’re only going to be using it on dead people.’”

As I was at the check-out counter, Rabbi Lezak called on my cell phone to tell me the coffin delivery was delayed due to it being Veteran’s Day, and therefore we wouldn’t be able to do taharah until the afternoon. So it turned out there had been no need to rush.

Although my heart was racing as I drove the last few blocks to the mortuary, as we met with Rabbi Lezak and talked about the woman who had died and what we were going to do, I relaxed.

When we walked into the preparation room (without the rabbi, since only women are allowed to wash women), I found I was perfectly calm. I thought I would feel a jolt of anxiety the first time I saw a real person covered by a sheet, but I didn’t.

So we washed her, and one of us said the prayers, and we poured the ritual water over her while we repeated three times in Hebrew, “She is pure, she is pure, she is pure.” Then we dried her and dressed her. It was all done with deliberate, loving care.

She had been ill for so long and had lost so much weight that we didn’t need to use the electric lift to move her into the coffin. I had the privilege of being one of the three people to move her.

I will never forget the feeling as I cradled her in my arms and gently lowered her into her coffin. The only way I can describe it is it felt purely, wholly right. We covered the coffin and asked her forgiveness for anything we may have omitted, or any error, or anything we may have done to offend her.

I thought, “This is such a beautiful thing. How could anyone who knows about taharah not want it done for themselves and for their loved ones? Why would anyone want this done by strangers, no matter how competent they may be, rather than by their own, loving community?”

Afterward, we spent about 20 minutes talking with each other, as a transition before we hugged each other and got into our cars to leave.

Because we had started so late, it was already getting dark. Usually I equate darkness with lifelessness, but as I drove home I found myself feeling deeply aware of the incredible abundance of life all around me.

As I navigated my way through the rush hour traffic, I found that whereas when I drive I normally think of the cars around me as just vehicles, I was suddenly acutely aware that inside each vehicle was a person. As I drove I was part of a stream of living, breathing, human beings all heading in the same direction down the freeway.

On several occasions I have heard Rabbi Lezak say, “Get close to death. It will bring you closer to life.” I thought I knew what he meant, but now I finally understand.

Chevra Kadisha Seminar - The Knowledge

By Susan Esther Barnes

Below is Part Two of a two-part post about a seminar I attended. I'm posting it in two parts since each post looks at the seminar from a different perspective. The first post includes some things I learned that were incidental to the seminar. This post is about some of the things I learned that the seminar intended to teach. The first post also explains what the words “Chevra Kadisha” and “taharah” mean.


**************************
While I expected to learn the technical aspects of how to perform taharah at the Chevra Kadisha seminar I attended on Sunday, I was surprised to find it included information on Jewish beliefs about what our soul does after we die. In hindsight, it shouldn’t have been such a surprise. The seminar was, after all, being taught by a rabbi.

I was fascinated by what the rabbi said happens when we die. Of course, there’s no way to know whether his description is accurate, but it appeals to me in many ways, so I can hope the tradition got at least some of it right.

He described how, while we’re alive, we can only think of a certain number of things at once. There are a lot of things going on all around us, but we can only focus on one thing at a time, and we usually tune out everything else. Similarly, we can’t remember every single detail about everything in our past; we can just remember certain things.

He says when we die and our soul separates from our body, we suddenly lose our previous limitations. Suddenly, we can perceive everything around us at once. We can remember every detail of our lives, including the joy of every single thing we ever did right and the shame of every single thing we ever did wrong.

The separation from our body and the sudden knowledge we gain about ourselves is a big shock. A soul in this state wants to move on, but it isn’t ready yet. It is distressed and confused. So it clings to the thing that is most familiar, its former home, its body.

The soul is fascinated by the experience of being outside its body and is concerned about what will happen to its body now that it has left. Thus, as we perform taharah we should be aware the soul is still there, hovering nearby, watching everything we say and do.

This is why, when we do taharah, we apologize to the person we’re washing, for any indignities they may suffer during the process. We’re not just talking to a dead body; we’re also talking to the soul who used to be in the body and who is in the room with us. This is one reason why, when we talk about taharah, we use the term “dead person,” not “dead body.”

The seminar also conveyed quite a bit of useful information about the technical aspects of taharah, such as the best way to turn and hold the person on his or her side so they don’t slide across the table while washing the back, how to remove a tube from them with a minimum of bleeding, what to do if we find a prosthetic limb or a cast, etc. He even showed us the best way to put on the traditional garments after the washing is done.

There are certainly a lot more details to consider than I would have thought. The seminar also helped me see how various unexpected things could come up during the process, and why it’s important to handle those issues in a calm and resourceful way. I think I could be helpful with that. If I ever get over the whole squeamishness thing.

Chevra Kadisha Seminar - The Experience

By Susan Esther Barnes

Below is Part One of a two-part post about a seminar I attended. I'm posting it in two parts since each post looks at the seminar from a different perspective. This one is about the experience and the second one is about the knowledge I gained.

***************

On Sunday afternoon I attended a Chevra Kadisha (generally translated as “holy society”) seminar. It was an introductory lecture on taharah, the Jewish method of ritually washing dead people to prepare them for burial. It was an uncomfortable experience for me, in more ways than one.

When I arrived, I walked into a large room set up with tables and chairs. On the far side of the room were two women and a man seated at one of the tables. I walked over to them to confirm I was in the right place for the seminar. They invited me to have a seat.

More people came in, and they naturally gravitated to our table. In time, there were eleven of us gathered there, chatting amiably. That’s when the man who’d been there from the start said, “It looks like we might get enough for a minyan. If we do, we can daven.” (“Daven” means to say Jewish liturgical prayers, some of which require a “minyan” of ten Jews to say).

From my perspective, we already had a minyan, because there were at least ten Jewish people present. But by his statement this man was declaring he only counts men in a minyan. Without giving it a second thought, this man was telling me, and the other women at the table, that we don’t count. None of us said anything, but I think he picked up the change in body language from some of us, because a short time later he said some things such as he knew some of us were “liberated women.”

The point is, because of this comment, before the seminar even started, I felt uncomfortable. Since taharah is not common among Reform Jews, I started to think, “As I do this am I going to run into a lot of similar situations in which I feel like I’m being put down in some way because my customs are different?”

Aside from the cultural concerns that arose immediately before the seminar, my main source of discomfort during the seminar was caused by the talk of things like blood and mucus and oozing. My husband would probably think it serves me right, because whenever I have a cold or some other malady I want to describe it to him in great detail, and he does not want to hear a bit of it.

The fact is, I needed to hear about the blood and the mucus and the oozing. I still need to hear a lot more about it. This is because my biggest fear about trying to do taharah is there’s a very real possibility that when I see the blood or the mucus or the oozing, I might need to sit down and put my head between my knees in order to prevent myself from passing out. I say this based on past experience.

Frankly, it’s mostly the blood I’m worried about. The good news is, the woman sitting next to me said she’s been doing this for about ten years and so far she hasn’t encountered anyone who has had a violent death. So she hasn’t seen a lot of blood or similar unpleasantness.

Nevertheless, it’s clear I’m not going to be able to do taharah unless I can somehow desensitize myself to some extent to my natural reaction to blood. It’s going to be a bit hard to ritually wash someone while I have my head between my knees. The best way I know to desensitize myself, as with any irrational fear, is to approach it close enough to get uncomfortable, back away, talk about it, calm down, and then repeat the process as often as necessary. This seminar was one step in this process.

So although the content of the seminar may have been things I could have read in a book, my attendance at the seminar provided me with two important experiences: The realization that I need to prepare myself for encounters with people who observe different Jewish customs than I do, and a chance to approach my fears about blood. Not a pleasant way to spend the afternoon, but certainly one that was worthwhile.

Update on Rose

By Susan Esther Barnes

I visited Rose again this morning. She was lying in bed, covered up to her neck. Her eyes were open, but they didn't move. She didn't give any impression during my visit to indicate she was aware I was there at all.

I held her hand through the covers and watched her breathe. She didn't seem to be in pain. She didn't seem to be asleep. She was just there, breathing.

I sang "Pitchu Li" for her: "Open the gates of righteousness, so I may praise God." It seems to me that when Rose dies, she will be passing through the Gates of the Righteous. In Hebrew, the word is tzedek, either righteousness or justice, so maybe it's really the Gates of the Just.

Rose has lived a long life. She became ill, and decided her time on earth was done, so she stopped eating. After 93 years of life on this earth, 93 years of bringing light and happiness to others, she deserves a chance to rest, to lie in bed and just breathe, before she moves on to whatever comes next.

I realized, over the past week or so, that the idea of joining a chevra kadisha, a holy society, to ritually wash the bodies of people after they have died, no longer seems so scary. How could Rose's body ever be scary?

Before I left, I kissed her on the forehead and told her I love her. It doesn't matter whether or not she heard me; I know she knows. I just needed to hear it one more time while she breathed.

------------------------------------------------------------
Addendum:
Rose died at 9:40 pm on July 31, 2010, the 21st of Av, 5770.
Baruch dayan ha'emet.

Changing Plans

By Susan Esther Barnes

While browsing the web on Friday, I made a comment on Minnesota Mamaleh's blog about what I was looking forward to doing on Shabbat.

My father taught me better than this. You never say, “I’m going to do such and such.” You always say, “I hope to,” or “I’m planning to,” or someplace you insert, “God willing.” For me this is not a superstition. It’s an acknowledgment that we can make all the plans we want, but God may have different plans for us, and in the end, it’s God’s plan that comes to fruition.

Last Saturday my husband and I went to see his folks in Oregon, and the previous two Shabbats I was in Israel, so this, I assumed, would be the first Shabbat in about a month on which I would be able to follow my normal routine: Services on Friday night, Torah study on Saturday morning, Saturday morning services, and a nap in the afternoon. After all, I had nothing else planned. What could possibly go wrong?

On the third Friday of the month during the summer, our synagogue holds Friday night services outdoors at a nearby state park. It’s a beautiful place, with plenty of grass to sit on and a gorgeous view of the San Francisco Bay.

So there I was, standing at the parking lot entrance, greeting congregants as they arrived, when a particular couple drove up. We have a mutual friend, Rose, who at 93 was diagnosed with cancer. I was able to visit Rose in the hospital a couple of times before I left on my trip.

She seemed to be doing quite well. In fact, on my last visit she was telling me she’d only been walking from her bed to the restroom, but she didn’t think that was enough exercise, so she was going to try to talk the nurses into taking her on a walk down the hall. The staff was working on plans to discharge her to a convalescent hospital.

Now that I was back, I wanted to visit Rose again, so I asked this couple where she was. They answered my question, but they told me Rose had stopped eating and had been moved to hospice. It’s funny how people are able to convey what they mean without coming out and saying it. What they were telling me was Rose is dying, it may not be long now, and if I wanted to see her I’d better do it soon.

As if that weren’t convincing enough, at home I had a voice mail message from another friend, telling me Rose specifically asked for me to come see her, implying that it should be soon.

So instead of going to Torah study on Saturday morning, I called the place where Rose is and asked if I could come see her. “Come on over in about an hour,” they said, “She’s up and showering, and she’ll be having breakfast soon.”

Showering? Breakfast? Does this sound like someone who has stopped eating and is going to die in the next few days? What was I supposed to make of that?

Of course there was nothing for it but to go on over and see for myself. And there she was, talking on the phone, as lucid as ever. But beside her bed was a full tray of food, along with an array of cups and glasses filled with various liquids she clearly wasn’t drinking.

So we talked. I tried to make plenty of space to let her talk about whatever she wanted. She told me about her two children who had died, and how she keeps thinking about what it was like for her and for them when that happened. She talked about her son who is still living, and her hopes for him.

She told me about how, before her husband’s death, as a rabbi’s wife she used to greet people at the synagogue, and how I do that now.

We talked about our first memories of each other. I reminded her that back when I attended my first class at the synagogue because I knew nobody and wanted to meet some friends, she was the first person I met. I tried to let her know how much it meant to me when she was the first person to introduce me to someone as her friend.

I told her I love her, and I will miss her. She told me her children are always with her, and she will always be with me.

I was there for an hour and a half. Mostly we talked. For short periods of time we were silent, and that was okay too. Some moments we smiled and laughed, and at some moments tears graced my cheeks. It wasn’t nearly enough time, but the rabbis tell us not to stay too long when we visit the sick, so I left, and said a prayer for her.

I sat in services this morning, but for the most part I couldn’t say the prayers. I just let the tears come down as they would. I didn’t feel sad exactly; I just felt like crying. A part of me kept paraphrasing the line from the Monty Python movie, scolding, “She’s not dead yet,” implying it was not yet time to cry. But grief takes its own course in its own time; only a fool tries to divert it.

Perhaps I will see Rose again. Perhaps I will speak with her on the phone. Maybe both; maybe neither. It’s hard not knowing, but it’s the way it’s supposed to be. I am grateful Rose has this time to see her friends and family and to say goodbye. I am grateful I had this time with her.

It’s funny how often God’s plans are better than mine.

Thinking About Caring for Dead People

By Susan Esther Barnes

This Fall our synagogue is planning to have a group of people learn how to do taharah, the ritual washing of people’s remains after they die. This mitzvah is considered to be one of the most holy, because the people who perform this task know the person on whom they perform it has no way to thank or reward them.

I looked it up online, and found the washing is done in a particular order, from the head, down the right side, and then the left. All sorts of details are spelled out, including what to do if there is any bleeding, the position of the person being washed, and the privacy of the room in which the washing is done.

Just reading about the procedure makes me nervous. It’s something I’d like to be able to do, but I’ve never been in a room with a dead person, and I don’t know how I’d react to it. I suspect that feinting at the feet of the person to be washed would be bad form. Especially since the instructions clearly state there should be no interruptions during the washing.

I’m not sure why I feel so anxious about it. I suppose being in the room with a dead person makes one think about one’s own mortality, but it’s not like I don’t do that on a regular basis. Since I’m severely allergic to fish, I tend to think about how quick and easy it would be to kill me every time someone mentions sushi or I see tuna salad at the deli counter.

There’s something more primal to it than the intellectual contemplation of death. The discomfort must be a deeply ingrained survival mechanism. In a world before disinfectants, refrigeration and antibiotics, I’m sure that being around a dead person was a pretty good way to catch your death of something. People who avoided dead people probably lived longer, and people who didn’t probably got weeded out of the gene pool over time.

I would like to think I could just go into a room with a dead person, take a deep breath, focus on the facts (this person is dead, I’m not, they’re not contagious, therefore there is no danger), and get on with the taharah. I have a terrible track record when trying to predict how I will react in a new situation, so it’s possible I’d be able to do this with no problem, but I doubt it.

Like any irrational fear (I was going to say phobia, but I think that’s a little strong in my case), I suspect these feelings can be overcome by a gradual introduction to the object of the fear. So it seems to me the safer path would be to act first as a shomeret (a guard) for the dead first. A dead person is not to be left alone between death and burial, so a shomeret (or shomer for a male) watches over the dead person, traditionally reading Psalms, but not touching the person. If I can do that without freaking out, then I’d be more confident about my ability to take it to the next level.

To a large extent I want to skip the shomeret part. I don’t like to give into irrational fear, and I don’t want to miss the first class just because I’m afraid of what might or might not happen. Frankly, I’m hoping there will turn out to be a requirement that everyone who doesn’t already have experience being around dead people has to be a shomer or shomeret before they learn taharah. That way I could ease into it without feeling like I’m wimping out.

At any rate, although I believe when someone’s dead they’re gone (I hope to whatever comes next), and I don’t think they hang around their dead body, I’m still enamored with the idea that we treat the dead with respect by guarding the remains and carefully preparing them for burial even though we don’t believe in open casket funerals. And I like the idea that it’s close family members, not a stranger, who throws the first handfuls of dirt on the coffin after it’s lowered into the grave. I don’t know why this is important to me, but it is, and I hope I’ll be able to keep myself together enough when the time comes to be able to participate in the tradition.

Wanted for Multiple Planticide

By Susan Esther Barnes

There were no early warning signs when I was a child. I was not caught lighting bushes on fire or throwing potted ivy into the swimming pool. True, from time to time I could be seen stabbing toothpicks into an avocado seed, but that was ostensibly for the purpose of growing a plant out of it.

My first apartment was completely devoid of all plant life, other than the mold on the dirty dishes in the sink. This did not inspire me to visit a nursery, but it did result in a promise to myself that my future residences would contain a dishwashing machine. Who, then, could have predicted my future would include the horror of multiple planticide?

My crime spree started after the death of my paternal grandmother, may her memory be a blessing. She had a fine collection of african violets, which some fair-minded person decided should be divided among her survivors. The two or three plants assigned to me didn’t last long.

My misguided career in attempted plant care may have ended there, but for my misfortune in marrying a man who had multiple plants, both live and plastic. Neither of us ever touched the things, which thrived under the care of the housekeeper, who only came once a week, making it look easy.

Alas, I did not heed the warning sign when I decided to buy a new houseplant and then stopped for groceries on my way home. It did not occur to me that the admonition not to leave pets or small children locked in a hot car might apply to plants as well. I can still see the bewilderment on the housekeeper’s face as he timidly asked, “Why did you buy a plant with so many brown leaves?”

Buoyed by the housekeeper’s success, and perhaps unconsciously hearkening back to a simpler time when I harbored mold in the sink, when my marriage ended and I found myself once again in my own tiny apartment (with a dishwasher!), I concluded I could likely nourish some plants of my own.

Imagine my shock when, some months later, I stepped through my front door to find plant bits and dirt strewn across my living room floor. What planticidal maniac (and possible soulmate?) could have broken into my apartment and, in a fit of anti-herbacious rage, proceeded to tear my poor houseplant limb from limb?

I considered fleeing in case the intruder were still nearby, but instead I summoned enough courage to investigate the scene of the crime. The victim had been a succulent, with multiple “arms” meeting in the dirt in the center of the pot. Apparently, overwatering had caused the bottoms of the arms to rot where they met the soil, until eventually the weight of the arms caused the lower parts to break off suddenly, thereby turning each arm into a separate catapult, launching the dirt and rotted plant parts in all directions. It is now remembered fondly as the Amazing Exploding Plant.

After I remarried and we moved into our new home, my husband and I were given four or five houseplants as housewarming gifts. Some succumbed quickly, while others struggled in a gamely fashion for some time, but within a year the only survivor was the orchid. After the flowers died the leaves still looked green, I went to the nearby nursery for advice. “How is this plant the sole survivor,” I wondered, “Aren’t orchids hard to care for?”

The nice man behind the counter assured me, “Oh, no! Keep doing what you’ve been doing, and it will bloom again next year. Orchids love neglect!” I followed his advice, and the orchid is once again in full bloom, lording a glorious row of gorgeous flowers over a half-dead victory rose, a hibiscus stump, and three pots of scraggly herb sprouts.

And that is the trouble that keeps us addicts and serial killers coming back for more. Despite the horror and the suffering, it is these moments of ecstasy that we keep trying so desperately to recreate. “If I just get one more plant,” I tell myself, “maybe this time it will bloom and thrive.” And so the planticide continues. Pray for them.

The First Day of Spring

By Susan Esther Barnes

Two weeks ago my friend Mark, who has been grappling with cancer, announced that for the first time in two years he would be able to work five full shifts in a row.

That day my friend Gail’s mother, who had been ill for a number of years, died.

About the same time, my friend Joanne’s brother, after playing cards with some friends, developed a sudden headache, began to throw up, then was rushed to the hospital with a massive stroke, where he died a short time later.

We sat shiva for Gail’s mother and Joanne’s brother on successive evenings.

Last week, Mark went to the hospital for a treatment to burn out a tumor, and emerged saying he didn’t know it was possible to be in so much pain. The doctors are trying to readjust his medication.

My husband caught a cold and snored so much, I spent much of the week sleeping on the couch downstairs.

On the windowsill in the kitchen the orchid is sporting six soft but strong white flowers, while in the pot beside it the first basil sprouts are peeking out from the damp dirt.

This morning, two 13-year-olds were called to the Torah and became b’not mitzvah. They are now considered to be fully responsible members of our community.

And today is the first day of spring.

Last Night on Shabbat

By Susan Esther Barnes

Usually, as soon as Friday night services start, Jose clears away the trays, cups, and other items from the pre-oneg. But last night more people came than we expected, and with extra chairs to set up, and prayer books to find and hand out, and dinner to get ready next door, it didn’t happen.

By the time I noticed the leftovers were still out, the service was half over. I began to clear away the plates, but as I went back for a second load I realized that despite the fact it is early February, with so many people packed into the synagogue, it was too hot and stuffy inside. In ones and twos, people were getting up and helping themselves to the water that was still left out. I thought to myself, “Oh, that must be why none of us thought to clean that up earlier; people need it now.” It felt like it was no coincidence.

Then I began to wonder whether there was enough water left, so I walked over to check. Standing there was a woman who had lost her father last week. “I can’t be in there right now,” she said, motioning toward the sanctuary, “I don’t feel part of the joyous mood.” We talked a bit about how, since she had been sitting shiva, this was the first time she had been past her own driveway this week, and about how when someone close to you dies it seems that your world stops but somehow the rest of the world keeps going, and it’s hard to get back in synch with everyone else.

I asked her whether she was planning to go to the dinner after services. She said no. Instead, she planned to gather her family around her, and read aloud to them from the condolence notes and cards she had received over the past week. She explained that her family had seen who had come to pray with them as they sat shiva, and she wanted them to understand that support comes in other ways as well. It felt right.

While I was helping to clean up after dinner, I happened to stop to chat with a woman and her family. I had never met these people before. It turns out the woman was visiting from Maryland, and was going to have surgery here soon. I asked her daughter-in-law whether she had notified the synagogue about it. She said no, because “she’s just visiting.” I told her, “Perhaps, but you’re related. And you’re not just visiting.” She gave me permission to let the synagogue know, and she looked grateful that someone would think of doing that. It felt like my stopping to chat with that particular family was no coincidence.

After dinner, I went to Shabbat Unplugged, where a group of us sang with Dan Nichols. At one point, he revealed that two weeks earlier he had sung at a memorial service for a 17-year-old boy who had died. He said after the service the boy’s mother told him the service was both beautiful and horrible, and he was trying to figure out how to process that. After we sang a bit more, he told us that singing with us was helping him to heal. It felt right; it was a holy moment.

On the way home, I thought about a man I know named Angel who often says he believes the universe is unfolding the way it’s supposed to. I certainly felt that way last night. Not that it’s a surprise. It was, after all, Shabbat.

The Things You Would Have Said

By Susan Esther Barnes

Jon Carroll has been my favorite San Francisco Chronicle columnist since the death of Herb Caen. (Yes I know I'm dating myself here). Last week he wrote a column about a website called "The Things You Would Have Said." On its home page, this website says it is here for the following purpose: "Whether the person has passed away, contact was lost, or the strength needed at the time was lacking, this is a chance to say what you have always wanted them to know." People send in their letters to the website via email, and they are posted with the author's name and age, or anonymously, as requested.

The posts on this site provide a fascinating read. Some are heartwarming; others are heart wrenching. For those who have the time, I recommend reading them all, except I would suggest that animal lovers skip "Black Cat." (Trust me on this one.)

When I first learned about this site, I wasn't sure it was such a good idea. I believe if one person has something to say to another, they ought to do so directly, even if it feels overdue or awkward. Every time I have forced myself to have an uncomfortable conversation with someone, afterward I have been glad I did it.

Also, throughout my life I have told myself I won't second guess my decisions. I decided that as long as I sincerely try to make the best decisions I can with the information I have at the time, I won't berate myself later on if additional information I receive after the fact proves the decision to be less than optimal.

Still, with this reminder that there are many people who have been left feeling there is something they wish they would have said, I decided to take an inventory of the people in my life.

I thought about each person who is especially close to me, and wondered, "If I wanted to write a letter for the "Would Have Said" website, could I write a letter to this person? Is there anything I haven't said to him or her that needs to be said?" If the answer for any person were yes, then I would know that was a person I would have to contact soon so I could have a conversation with them.

Next, I took an inventory of people I used to be close to, but with whom I have lost touch. Was there anything there I needed to say? The most obvious person in this category is my ex-husband, but I really have closed that chapter in my life. If there were any outstanding items in this category, then it seems to me it would be my obligation to at least make an honest effort to find the person and talk to them before I sent something in to be posted on the website.

Finally, I thought about the people I knew who have died. In a case like this, I could definitely see sending a letter to the website. After all, there is no way to go back to have a conversation with someone who has died. Which, of course, is why I think it's so important to have these conversations with the living before it's too late.

However, it does occur to me that saying people should only send in letters to people they can't find or who have died is too simplistic an answer. In some cases, the writers may need to vent their anger, which most likely would not be well-received by the other person. In this case, writing a letter to the website would probably be more healing than an in-person conversation. For example, I don't imagine the person who wrote to her rapist would have been better off tracking down her attacker after all those years.

So, although I have some concern people may use this website as an excuse not to have the conversations they ought to have with the people around them, I also recognize it can provide a powerful outlet for those who feel they need a venue in which to express themselves. And perhaps reading the posts of others may prompt some people to have the conversations they need to have before it's too late.

Judaism Creating Connections

By Susan Esther Barnes

On Friday night during services Rabbi Lezak told two stories about how living in Israel means living in an inter-connected community. The first one, here, talks about how the plight of Gilad Shalit, the Israel soldier who has been in captivity for three years, feels personal to all Israelis, since all of them have family members who were or are in the military.

The second story, here, is an amazing true story about the woman who is the mother of the first soldier killed in Cast Lead, who goes to a concert and by chance (or perhaps an act of God) meets a couple who named their baby after her fallen son.

To some extent these stories are possible because Israel is such a tiny country, where everyone (with some exceptions) sends their children to military or other national service. These stories, combined with something else that happened at services Friday night, got me thinking about how the practice of Judaism itself helps to create these connections.

One of the situations Judaism is particularly sensitive about is the death of a loved one. There are many customs and rituals that surround this event, and many of them create and rely on community connections. When a mourner returns home from the graveyard, he or she is not allowed to eat his or her own food. Rather, the community is expected to, and in fact bears the responsibility of, bringing food to the mourner. This not only relieves the mourner of having to think about mundane acts like grocery shopping and cooking when just walking across the room may feel like a monumental act, but it also makes sure the mourner is not alone during this critical time.

In addition, the mourner is to say the Mourner's Kaddish on a regular basis throughout the first eleven months after their loved on has died. And this prayer may only be said when there are at least ten Jews present. Again, this serves to ensure the mourner is surrounded by members of his or her community during the first year of mourning.

After the first year has passed, we say the Mourner's Kaddish for the anniversary of the loved one's death, called the Yarzheit. When worshippers come to services on Friday night they are handed a program that contains various bits of information, and on the back is a list of those in the congregation who have died recently as well as the names of those who are having their Yarzeheit.

On Friday night, I was sitting beside a couple, when another couple sat behind us. The woman next to me was looking at the Yarzheit list, and she turned to the couple behind us. She pointed at the list and said, "I see this person on the list with the same last name as you. Is this your father?"

"No," they replied, "That is our son."

"How old was he?" asked the woman.

"22."

"Oh, I didn't know."

And thus another connection was created, because when you know a couple has lost a son, an incredible tragedy in itself, and further learn the son died so young, it cannot help but create an understanding, a bond, from the acknowledgement that these people have walked through the fire and have the bravery to carry on.

And it strikes me this is one of the ways Judaism seeks to connect us. Yarzheit not only serves to comfort the mourner, but its public nature gives us the opportunity to ask the questions that bind us together, like "Who was she?" "What is your favorite memory about him?" and to make the statements that bind us together, like, "I remember him" and "I miss her too."

How Are You?

The question, "How are you?" is a common greeting among people I know. The expected answer is, "I'm fine, how are you?" I find I sometimes surprise people when, instead of giving the expected answer, I say, "I'm doing great!" This is generally the most authentic short answer I can give, since my life really is much better than I ever would have expected. It's not that everything is perfect, but all the most important pieces are in place: The world's best husband, a great community, friends, mostly healthy family, full employment, etc.

A friend of mine told me recently how much she dislikes the "How are you?" greeting, since most people seem to ask it in passing and then rush on without even pausing to hear the answer. If you're not going to stick around for an answer, why ask?

A woman who lost her husband about six months previously spoke to my Bikkur Cholim (visiting the sick) group about what to say and what not to say to a person in mourning. She said the one question she wishes people would stop asking her is, "How are you?" She says she doesn't feel comfortable answering, "Fine" when that's not how she feels, yet she knows most people who ask the question aren't really interested in hearing her real answer to it.

Another person in the group related a story about a family she recently visited who were sitting shiva (the first seven days of mourning after a loved one has died). She said part way through the evening the husband taped a hand-written sign to the door saying, "Please don't ask me how I'm doing." I can't even imagine how difficult it would be to try to respond to that question when one is in mourning, particularly in the first days and weeks, when the mourner is still struggling to understand the enormous change that has occurred.

Aside from greeting mourners and friends with something more along the lines of, "It's good to see you," or some such statement rather than a question, I don't know what I plan to do with this whole "How are you?" question. It is still part of the oil that keeps the social machine running. Substituting something like, "Greetings and salutations" is a bit awkward. I guess it's something I'll just have to work on.

Remembering Grandma

By Susan Esther Barnes

This week I finished taking a class series on walking people through the process of dying, as well as visiting people in mourning. On the last night of class, Rabbi Lezak asked us to tell stories of a time when either someone visited us while we were in mourning, or a time when we visited a mourner.

The first thing I thought was I’ve never received a visit while I was in mourning. We come from a small family, and both my grandfathers died before I was born. The only family members who have died in my lifetime were my two grandmothers and my two Great Uncles. In no case did anyone come to our house to comfort us after their deaths.

The next thing I thought about was how, after my father’s mother’s funeral, we gathered for lunch at the apartment she had shared with her brother, my Great Uncle Mitch. At some point during lunch my father’s wife Sonia said, “One story I remember about Pearl is – “ but Uncle Mitch cut her off. He would not permit anyone to talk about Grandma. I don’t remember anyone in my family talking about Grandma after that day. Whenever I think about that lunch, I feel like I was cheated. How many stories about Grandma would I have heard if Uncle Mitch had let us talk about her? What would I have learned about her that I will never know?

Last summer, I said the Mourner’s Kaddish for the 25th anniversary of Grandma’s death. As far as I know, it was the first time anyone had said Kaddish for her since her funeral. She was too strong a force in this world to be forgotten easily. She is still a positive force in my life. So although I can’t go back to that lunch to try to convince Uncle Mitch to let us speak, here are the stories I want to preserve about her.

Grandma was about five feet tall, in her 80’s, and bent over from osteoporosis. Her whole body shook all the time, like Katherine Hepburn’s does now. When I asked her why she shook like that, she told me a rat suddenly jumped out at her when she was a girl, and it scared her so badly she’d never been able to stop shaking.

Anyone who knew Grandma would immediately know her rat story was a complete fabrication. She might look small and frail, but she was a warrior. She was a woman of action. Nobody would believe something as insignificant as a rat would scare her for long. When she was living in Hungary and Hitler was rising to power, she went to see him speak so she could size him up for herself. She didn’t know German, but what she saw and heard alarmed her. Rather than cowering in fear, she gathered up her husband and son (my father), and got the heck out of Dodge. They would not be among the six million killed.

Grandma was the embodiment of unconditional love. She was a refuge and a protector. That doesn’t mean she never got mad at us. When my sister and I got into trouble, boy, would we know it. Just the look on her face would make the bravest person back off fast. No sane person would ever cross her twice.

She taught me that when it comes for sticking up for what is right, size doesn’t matter. She regularly walked to the Opportunity Shop in her neighborhood, where she volunteered raising money for Israel. She never learned to drive, but she lived in San Francisco, knew all the Muni routes, and had no trouble getting wherever she wanted to go. When she got on a bus and found all the seats were taken, she would stand in the middle of the aisle, look down the length of the bus, and announce in a loud voice hardly impeded by her small shaking body, “As a rule, it used to be that when an old lady got on the bus, a gentleman would give her his seat!” Immediately, a half dozen shame-faced people would leap to their feet and offer her their place. Some of them were so embarrassed they never sat down again even after they realized they could. My sister and I got some good seats this way.

Aside from her unconditional love, the best gift Grandma gave me was a sense of connection to my Jewish heritage. Although we grew up in a secular home, Grandma consistently made sure to write “Happy Hanukah” on the presents we unwrapped at Christmas. She had a hanukiah in her living room year round, and a Jewish calendar in the kitchen. If we wanted a snack, in her home matzo was always available. These may seem like small things, but as I was growing up, whenever I heard someone say the only way to get to Heaven was though Jesus I knew it wasn’t true because Grandma wasn’t Christian and there was no way a fair and decent God would, for even a moment, consider keeping her out.

So this is how I remember Grandma. Every year, from now on, I will be saying Kaddish for the anniversary of her death. And from time to time I will wear something that has Tweetie Bird on it. Because, like Grandma, to the uninitiated Tweetie Bird may appear to be small and helpless, but anyone who knows anything knows Tweetie, like Grandma, is well capable of taking care of himself.

For Pearl Singer, may her memory be a blessing.