My Bond of Life

by Debi Horowitz
JTS / Columbia

For the first ten years of my life, I left with the crowd of kids in an exile of the youth from the unknown, Yizkor.

As is custom, those who have not lost a family member leave, partially out of superstition that one who stays by choice is almost asking to need to return. I had followed this superstition, but by my eleventh Yom Kippur, I had become one of those people who did need to stay. I had lost my father ten months before.

As I looked around the room, consisting mostly of adult and elderly congregants who had lost their parents, I read the passage in Yizkor for those who had lost their fathers. I vowed (without vowing of course) that I would give charity to causes that were important to my dad. I prayed that his soul would be "bound up in the bond of life," but in truth I had no clue what "the bond of life" was.

I quickly finished because I only had one paragraph to recite, and I reminisced about the past ten months, and the way the world had changed in my eyes.

I remember being shocked, and almost hurt, when I arrived home from my dad's burial, and everyone was acting so normal. People were laughing, telling jokes, and smiling. What was probably (and hopefully will remain) the most devastating event of my life had just taken place, and those who were here to help me were smiling. I couldn't understand it. The kids in my fifth grade class came, and the first thing they did was grab a ball and begin playing soccer in my backyard. Again, I was surprised and hurt, but I played with them because I didn't know what else to do. I said something later to my mom about how I thought it might be inappropriate for people to be telling jokes and playing soccer in our shiva house, but she didn't seem disturbed and just replied that it was "okay" for them to do that.

I believed my mother (because parents know everything when you're ten) but I didn't understand it until eight years later, when I was on the other side, trying to comfort a friend who was dealing with the same tragedy: a young father, lost to cancer.

The truth was, I didn't know what to say. She came to me for advice and comfort and I could tell her my experiences but I had no idea what words to use when I went to visit her. Of course, the usual ones came to mind, "He's out of his pain now" or "He's in a better place now, with God," or "It will get better"... and yet I remembered how I hated when anyone said those words to me. Even a simple "I'm sorry" just became trite and meaningless.

So I asked myself, are there words to say to someone to ease their bereavement?

No. That was my conclusion. Words don't take away pain. But that does not mean that people are powerless to help. After all, there's a reason why the house is supposed to be crowded at all times during shiva, because people do help tremendously - just not with words.

And that was when I realized why my mom had said it was okay for our friends to laugh and play soccer; they were doing exactly what they should have been doing: being with us, physically. The best way to show people that you are there for them, I discovered, is to actually be there for them. At some point words become insignificant, but company never does. You don't need to talk, because just being there is truly what a mourner needs from his friends.

Now that I have done Yizkor for ten years, the words of charity and bonds of life have finally found meaning for me. Charity is a way of continuing to be with the deceased. To uphold what is important to the person is showing your care much more than all the words in the world. Doing what they would have done allows them to continue doing mitzvot in the world, allowing them to remain here even without speech at all. As for the bonds of life, its literal meaning I understand as all Jewish souls recombining like putting a drop of water into the ocean. But I think there is a deeper message, one that is a model for friends of mourners on this earth.

As the Artscroll Siddur tells us, the soul is "unlimited by the constraints of time and space and the weakness of flesh." The soul is not limited to the physical world, just as being with someone who is mourning should not be constrained by the limits of words. And just as the soul is bound with our matriarchs and patriarchs, so too should the friends of mourners be bound with those in mourning.

Yizkor is not only allowing us to remember the deceased, but showing us how to be there for the bereaved. It is showing us that what is important in this world is not what is limited to this world. Words are not as important as presence, which is something that is done by those alive, dead, and HaShem Himself.

Looking back at how I survived the past ten years without my father, few spoken words come to mind. What I remember as pulling me through was the hug given to me by my best friend at the burial, and those who came to spend time with me during shiva.

I remember those who held my hand during Kaddish, and I remember those who helped me make a minyan for each yahrtzeit. I remember all my wonderful friends and family who were there for me by being with me. I remember those who sat with me and held me. Mostly, I remember the people who didn't let go. Those who were with me, even with the jokes and sports, are those with whom I am bound for eternity.

Looking to learn more about losing someone? prayers for the living and the deceased?

Rabbi Elyse Winick recommends:

• Kaddish
  Leon Wieseltier
  Vintage Books, 2000

• Making Loss Matter: Creating Meaning in Difficult Times
  David Wolpe
  Riverhead Books, 2000

• A Time to Mourn A Time to Comfort
  Ron Wolfson
  Jewish Lights Publishing, 1996

[Posted 8/20/02]