Escorting a Soul

My friend’s mother died this week.  The world is a little less friendly, less warm and less kind without her.   She was a lady who had a warm smile and was lovely to talk to.

When a parent of a friend dies, I think of my own experience.  My dad died when I was a teenager.  He came from a European world that dictated distance and formality between father and daughter.  I studied German to better communicate with him.   I helped him fix the car, and plant his garden.  I listened to him as he lost his memory and repeated stories I had heard before.  The night he died, I told him, “I love you.”  To my complete shock, he told me he loved me in return. It was the only time he ever said he loved me.

He was old enough to be a grandfather when I was born.  He died in his sleep and from that moment to the time of his burial he was in the hands of strangers whose job it was to ensure everything was “proper.”   He was not afraid of death.  He was afraid of how his death would be handled.

Dad was a big fan of Jews. He knew Jews did not embalm their dead, and buried them quickly in a plain casket.  To him, it was wrong to put makeup on people so they would look better in death than life.   When he attended a funeral and heard others say,  “He looks so peaceful” or “She looked better than I’ve seen her in a long time,” he would roll his eyes.  He taught me to visit the sick and the grieving.  “What do I say?” I would ask.  “Don’t talk, just listen, you will learn something,” he would reply. He knew Jews had the community we lacked.

The dad I saw at the funeral home was not mine.  He didn’t comb his hair that way.  He never wore makeup.  The blue suit wasn’t right. I heard people who had not seen him in years or did not bother to call or visit when he was ill, tell me how great he looked. 

The father I loved loathed being displayed.  If ever there was a time to break with tradition, this was it.  I dug his sweaty work shirt out of the laundry.  I kept his pocketknife and hankie.  These things represented the man mourned.

Meanwhile, I cooked for the friends and relatives who visited. I took care of them.  My “Shiva” ended when they left the house after the funeral.  I needed the time to talk and cry.  It was not until I attended my first Jewish funeral that I would resolve my feelings.  My dad deserved better.  So did I.

A few weeks after my conversion, my rabbi asked me to be part of our Chevra Kadisha.  I had no clue what a Chevra Kadisha was, but if it made me part of the Jewish community, I wanted to sign up.  When I found out this group of dedicated, loving and caring individuals prepared people for burial, I was scared.  The “Rosh” led me through the process. I performed my first taharah when I was 19.  In performing a mitzvah called the “final kindness,” I learned to love my fellow person in a way that combined compassion and dignity.  I learned that in death, unlike life, we are all the same.  To this day, I believe that my father was behind this.   

I have learned that Jews can be found everywhere.  I have travelled hours to perform a taharah for a woman, covered in tattoos and piercings, whose only connection to Judaism was her mother.  I have helped perform taharahs for women who took their own life, died in accidents, survived hell in Europe or were victims of terrorism.  I have helped train others to perform the mitzvah.

I learn from the women who work with me. They come from all levels of observance and every walk of life.  Some are more spiritual than others, but each one is the epitome of Jewish womanhood.

At the end of each taharah, as the aron (casket) is closed, we ask for forgiveness from the metah (in case we have inadvertently offended her) and recite a prayer for the final journey of our sister.  We hug each other and are deeply thankful we are a part of this people.