shiva

Divre Harav – March, 2024

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In memory of Dale Krishef, Devorah bat Yoel u’Feigel.

Most of us will sit shiva for two major losses during out lifetime, that of our parents; and some will also have occasion to mourn the significant losses of spouses, siblings, or children. Shiva is an intense period of mourning, during which the mourner does not leave his or her home for seven days, except on Shabbat, when the public rituals of mourning are set aside. The mourner wears the torn shirt (or ribbon) during shiva as a sign of loss and we bring a minyan into their home. For a person who is deeply engaged in Jewish community, who is a regular part of a synagogue community, during shiva the community shows its love by reaching out with food and their presence. I can testify first hand to the power of this love and I am grateful to each person who went out of their way to come into our home during my recent shiva after their loss of my mother.

There is wisdom in the practice of Jewish mourning because it places the mitzvah of taking care of the mourner on the community and encourages the mourner to take time off to mourn and reflect.

Following the intensity of shiva, we say kaddish until 30 days after the burial, known as sheloshim. In the cases of the loss of parents, that 30 day mourning period is extended for a year (although most people stop saying kaddish after 11 months). In my case, I am trying to take the prohibition against attending or listening to programs of entertainment fairly seriously, at least for sheloshim. In the normal course of my life, I use entertainment to distract me from my thoughts. It might elevate my thoughts to a higher level, if I am watching a program of substance, but more often, it is the equivalent of cotton candy – no substance, lots of sugar, a distraction with no content of value. When living under a digital entertainment blackout, I find that at least some of the time I am reviewing memories of my mother, along with my father and other family members who are no longer with us. Some memories are pleasant, but many carry levels of regret and sadness. That’s what mourning is about: sitting with the memories, experiencing and processing and sifting through the sadness to find the hidden beauty underneath.

The custom of marking the anniversary of a death, known as yahrtzeit, by saying kaddish is an additional way that we might continue to observe the mitzvah of kibbud av v’eim, honoring one’s father and mother, or showing the same kind of honor and love for the memory of spouses, siblings, and children. There are two parts to this custom. First, I’d encourage you to come to the synagogue on the Shabbat on or before the yahrtzeit to say kaddish and also, if you are comfortable, to receive an aliyah. Second, to help the synagogue gather a minyan of people on the evening or morning of the yahrtzeit itself to say kaddish.

Finally, four times a year we include a special memorial service in the Yom Kippur and Festival services, known as yizkor. This is an additional opportunity and reminder to spend a few minutes thinking about your loved ones and saying prayers in their memory.

Hebrew (and Yiddish) Words of the Month:

  • Shiva – “seven” The seven day mourning period beginning with the burial.
  • Sheloshim – “thirty” The thirty day mourning period beginning with the burial.
  • Kaddish Yatom – “orphan’s Kaddish” The Kaddish assigned to mourners.
  • Yahrtzeit (Yiddish) – “anniversary” The anniversary of a death according to the Hebrew calendar.
  • Yizkor – A memorial service.

Divre Harav, January, 2016

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First I want to acknowledge with gratitude the outpouring of love and support for me and my family on the loss of my father. The journey through shiva gave me insight into a profoundly healing ritual that I had never fully experienced. The first time I sat shiva was for my infant daughter. The shiva minyanim morning and evening were important, but because we had two of her siblings in the hospital, we left the house every day to go visit them and focus on their needs. This time I experienced shiva in a form closer to its intended state. Except for the travel day between Minneapolis and Grand Rapids, I stayed in the home and stayed away from activities that would distract me from thinking about my father.

I talked about my father to Marisa and kept in touch by phone with my mother and sisters. I did some writing with my father in mind, created a slide show of pictures of my father, and watched it until I could do so without crying. I also sat or lay down doing nothing but thinking about him, stories he told, things we did together, and particularly how he handled the last week of his life.

The day my father died and the following day, the day of the funeral, I was an emotional wreck. The time I spent with my sisters and my mother, all grieving the loss of this person who meant so much to each of us, was enormously healing, and the time I spent in Grand Rapids with my community was comforting. In accordance with shiva customs, I didn’t get up to greet visitors. I waited until they came to greet me. I did that because even when I was in my home, I was not a host and didn’t want to act like one, which would have taken me out of the mental space of mourner.

Some people don’t know what to say to a mourner. For this reason, some visitors avoided me, not speaking to me until they were ready to leave, when they shared a few brief words of condolence, like “I’m sorry to hear about the loss of your father.” Other people said that or the words that Judaism supplies, “May God comfort you among all mourners of Zion and Jerusalem,” as they entered, but disengaged as soon as possible afterwards. There were times, especially at the shiva in Minneapolis, that I was sitting by myself just watching people come in and stand on the other side of the room from where I was sitting.

It is difficult for many people to talk about death. To speak about my father would stir up uncomfortable feelings either about their own parent’s death or about their own mortality. They may have projected those feelings onto me, thinking that I would be uncomfortable having to speak about my father. The most uncomfortable moments for me were when people engaged me in conversation that had nothing to do with my father or when they launched into some kind of sermon telling me what I should be feeling, thinking, or believing about my father’s soul.

I found great wisdom in the traditional approach to shiva, suggesting that visitors sit with the mourners in silence and let them open the conversation however they want. I wanted to talk about my father and when I found opportunities to share stories about him, it was a comfort to me. I was looking for the shiva visitors to provide me with an opening. More than anything, I wanted them to say very simply, “Tell me something about your father.” This, more than anything, is the enduring lesson I will take away from this shiva experience. Again, I am grateful to each one of you who called, visited, sent a note, made a donation, brought food, or spoke to me personally about the loss of my father.