I sat with my Bubbie near the end of her life, holding her frail hand — the same hand that once turned scraps into Shabbos feasts. Hands that grated potatoes for kugel until they ached. Hands that made homemade dressing, baked banana chocolate cake, and her famous moon-cookies. Hands that crocheted kippot for Zayde and mended my torn clothes — reduced to bone and fragile skin.
Her nails, always perfectly manicured in sparkling fuchsia— were chipped and fading, but still holding a trace of her vibrant spirit.
She lay on a hospital cot set up in her living room, surrounded by walls that had witnessed decades of her life. Her Alzheimer’s had stolen so much. Bubbie and I were so close. We used to bake together, sew together, crochet together, and read Yiddish stories together. Now, she looked at me with blank, searching eyes, unsure if I was a nurse, a stranger, or a distant memory. I sat there holding her hand, already grieving the loss of her before she was even gone.
Then suddenly — as if a veil had lifted — she turned her head, and for a brief moment, a light returned to her eyes, an awareness to her soul. With all the strength and excitement that she could gather, she became animated and started speaking — but not to me.
She was talking to her father — her father who had died in the Holocaust — as if he were standing right there beside her. Her face softened, her voice filled with warmth and love, and she gently shook free of my hand to reach toward him, her frail fingers stretching out to someone I couldn’t see.
At first, I told myself it was just the Alzheimer’s — maybe confusion, maybe a trick of the mind. But there was something so real about the way she spoke — so clear, so present — as though she knew exactly what she was seeing.
Later, she turned to me and asked, “Where is my father? Where did he go?” I didn’t have the heart to tell her he had died decades earlier, during the Holocaust — it would have shattered her all over again. So I simply said, “I don’t know.”
I’ve carried that moment with me ever since. I wonder: What if she really was seeing her father? What if, as she lay between this world and the next, he came to ease her way and guide her home?
She passed just a few days later.
On the way home from my Bubbie’s funeral, as I sat quietly in the car, a thought crossed my mind — Would I ever be able to talk to Bubbie again?
But right behind that question came a rush of guilt and shame — as if even wondering about such things was somehow wrong. I could almost hear Bubbie’s voice in my head, saying in Yiddish, “Nisht for Yidden” — “That’s not for Jews.”
Still, I couldn’t shake it. I wanted to know: what happens to the soul after someone dies? And is there any ways to stay connected? Or is death really the end of that bond?
This longing set me on a path — a quest to understand if love and connection can reach beyond this world. But as I explored this mysterious and spiritual realm, I struggled with a painful question that kept gnawing at me: Is this even a Jewish thing?
This longing set me on a path — a quest to understand if love and connection can reach beyond this world. But as I explored this mysterious and spiritual realm, I struggled with a painful question that kept gnawing at me: Is this even a Jewish thing?
I grew up surrounded by Judaism. I’m the granddaughter of Holocaust survivors. My family was eclectic, active in Reform, Conservative, and Modern Orthodox communities. I attended Jewish day schools from kindergarten through 12th grade. I had celebrated countless Shabbos dinners, holidays, and family gatherings, sat through years of Torah and Talmud study — went to Jewish camps, yet never once did I hear anyone speak about what happens to the soul after death. In my modern Jewish world, no one ever talked about staying connected to those who had passed on.
Was believing in the possibility of ongoing connection with those in the next world something Judaism embraced? — or was it something we were supposed to stay far away from?
For a long time, I was afraid that even asking these questions would get me “kicked out of Judaism.” But the deeper I searched, the more I discovered that Judaism is profoundly rooted in the belief that the soul continues after death — and that our connection to those we love is never really broken.
I began to explore Jewish teachings on the afterlife, studying with Rabbi Dr. Belinda Silbert, author of “Survival Kit for the Hereafter,” and taking courses on “Life After Death through Chabad” with Rabbi Avraham Plotkin, author of “7 Conversations with Jerry” — exploring practical ways and spiritual “portals” to reconnect with loved ones in the next world.
Through these teachings, I discovered that this connection between the living and the dead is not only real but deeply embedded in our ancient, mystical, Kabbalistic, and Chassidic traditions — a beautiful part of Judaism that somehow we don’t speak about enough.
Is This a Jewish Thing? Absolutely, Yes.
Through these teachings, I discovered that this connection between the living and the dead is not only real but deeply embedded in our ancient, mystical, Kabbalistic, and Chassidic traditions — a beautiful part of Judaism that somehow we don’t speak about enough.
The Torah cautions us against Necromancy, improper ways of attempting to connect with the dead. Necromancy (Devarim 18:10–11) is strictly forbidden. As Rashi explains — and as further clarified in the Chabad Kehot Chumash — what is prohibited is propping up a corpse under one’s arm to make it speak or placing a bone of a creature called ayido’a in one’s mouth to speak for or summon the dead.
However, Judaism does not deny that the souls of the deceased remain present. In fact, as reflected in our tahara rituals and the custom of reciting Tehillim at the bedsides of those awaiting burial, our tradition acknowledges that the soul lingers near the body as it transitions from this world to the next.
The Torah is clear: we are meant to seek connection with G-d — not through forbidden practices, but through holy and permissible ways that honor and uplift the souls of the departed.
The Gemara in Berachot 18 teaches that the dead are aware of the living — which is why we don’t walk through cemeteries with exposed tzitzit, as it would mock those who can no longer perform the mitzvot.
Our tradition is filled with examples of staying connected to those who have passed. We visit the graves of tzaddikim, for example, asking for their merit to help us. Chassidim leave kvitlach — handwritten notes and prayers — at the graves of righteous souls.
Rebbe Nachman of Breslov famously promised to his followers that from heaven, “by their Peyot, I will pull them out of Gehenom” if they visit his grave in Uman, recite the Tikkun Haklali, give a few coins to charity, and commit to improving their ways.
In fact, Breslover Chassidim even wear amulets that contain a special note, believed to have been written from heaven by Rebbe Nachman to one of his students — a tangible reminder of the ongoing relationship with him.
Rabbi Zushi Cunin of Chabad shared that the idea of connecting with the righteous at their gravesites is a deeply rooted theme in Judaism, we even know Caleb went to Hebron to pray at the tomb of the Patriarchs, the Cave of Machpelah, for the strength to resist the conspiracy of his comrades. Rabbi Zushi went on to explain that importantly, we do not pray to righteous people; we pray only to Hashem. Yet, when we pray in their presence, their soul is mostly in heaven. But there is a certain dimension of their soul that is here in this world. While the essence of their soul resides in the spiritual world, a dimension of their soul remains here. This connection is mutual: we benefit from their elevated spiritual state, and they benefit from our connection, since they no longer manifest in the physical world without us. They have the ability to empower us through our struggles, and through this bond, we form a bridge between worlds — drawing strength and guidance from their presence.
They have the ability to empower us through our struggles, and through this bond, we form a bridge between worlds — drawing strength and guidance from their presence.
Both Zisi Cunin and Rabbi Yehoshua B. Gordon recall the same shiva in 1957, after the passing of a grandparent, when the Lubavitcher Rebbe comforted the family by saying, “Don’t worry — they’re still with you. It’s like they’re just on the second story, looking down at you — ain shtok hecher — one floor higher, but still with you.” Rabbi Gordon added that the Rebbe explained, “When someone passes away, they don’t go far — they’re just one floor up, watching over us, interceding, praying, and blessing.”
The Zohar (Parashat Pinchas 219b) even teaches that parents who have passed attend their children’s weddings. In many Chassidic and other communities, it is customary for brides and grooms to visit the graves of their parents before the wedding to “invite” them to be present and to bless them on their special day.
So yes — believing in an ongoing connection with the souls of our loved ones is deeply rooted in Judaism.
The Zohar (Shemot 16b) even says that the souls of the dead pray for the living, continuing to advocate for us from the next world. When my Zayde passed away, my Orthadox cousin, Lizzie Rubin, said “He’s with his first family now, and he can do more in heaven than he was able to do here to advocate for us.”
Those words stayed with me. What if our loved ones really do continue to help us from above?
This idea — that souls continue to act on our behalf — is not just sentimental; it is embedded in our deepest mystical teachings.
During the heartbreaking week when we learned of the deaths of the Bibas babies — a tragedy too painful to comprehend — Rabbi Dr. Jason Weiner shared a teaching from the Zohar on that week’s Torah portion, Parashat Mishpatim, that shook me to my core. It speaks about the souls of innocent children who die tragically:
“But the greatest grief of all emanates from those ‘oppressed ones’ that are but little sucklings, removed from their mothers’ breasts. These can cause the whole world to weep, and there are no tears like theirs, for these are tears that spring from the deepest recesses of the heart, making the whole world wonder: ‘Where is the justice of G-d? Why do the innocent die?’
The Zohar continues, it is these tears that intercede for the living and protect us. Because of their innocence, they attain a place close to G-d, one that even the greatest tzaddikim cannot reach. As it says, ‘Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings, You have founded strength’ (Psalm 8:3).”
The Zohar tells us that these pure souls advocate for us in ways we cannot see, and that G-d unites with them in a special bond of love. They are not lost. They are elevated, cherished, and powerful in ways beyond our comprehension.
As the Zohar says, “The tears of these souls protect the living.”
Rabbi Yisroel Levine of Chabad shared with me a teaching from the Talmud: when Rabbi Yochanan ben Zakkai was about to pass on, he said “prepare a seat for Chezkia the King of Judah, who has come to welcome me.” Just as I witnessed with my Bubbie — reaching out to her father as she neared death — our sages describe the righteous coming to guide souls as they leave this world.
As a chaplain — I sit with those at the edge of life and hold space for the mysteries we cannot see. I’ve sat with countless dying patients, witnessing again and again what I first saw with my Bubbie — people reaching out to loved ones in spirit, having conversations with family members who passed long ago.
Experts like David Kessler, a leading voice on death and dying, share that many people see loved ones in spirit before they pass — especially mothers. They may reach out or focus on something unseen, often dismissed as medication or dementia. But what if it’s real? Kessler says these visions often occur not only in the final moments but even weeks before death, as if the veil between worlds is already thinning.
Through my own journey — from sitting at my Bubbie’s bedside to walking with patients at the edge of life — I’ve learned to sit gently with the unknown. In those sacred moments, I have witnessed things that leave me wondering if perhaps there is a quiet gathering at every bedside — souls of loved ones and righteous souls coming to comfort and guide the way home.
There are so many beliefs held within Judaism — and I’ve come to learn that woven throughout our tradition are deep teachings that speak of an eternal connection, of life that never truly ends but simply changes form. Teachings that say the bonds of love and spirit are never broken.
As a chaplain, I don’t pretend to have all the answers. But what I can offer is a willingness to sit in that sacred space of mystery — to honor the questions, the longings, and the quiet moments when something beyond words feels present.
Perhaps if we allow ourselves to be curious — to open our hearts to the possibility that love reaches beyond this world — it might bring some comfort and peace, and possibly change the way we understand life, death, and everything in between.
Evey Rothstein is a rabbi, spiritual care provider, light worker, designer, and host of the podcast “Let Yourself Sparkle,” where she explores creative ways to light up the body, mind, heart and soul.
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