A Time to Comfort
A little over a year ago I reconnected with an old friend. I hadn't spoken to him in almost 10 years. We had a misunderstanding before both of us got married and neither of us made a sincere effort to clear it up. Facebook gave us the courage to try to find each other and his first message to me was about his mother's death that had happened three weeks prior. His mom, Linda, was a wonderful woman who had been kind to me throughout our friendship. I recall being at his house for a BBQ and her making sure I had enough to eat since I was a vegetarian. My friend's parents' home was always open to me and to all of his friends. I'd always admired not only how close my friend was to his mother, but how kindly he spoke to her and never rolled his eyes when she tried to butt in to his life.
After reading his message I burst in to tears. How could I not have known? How could I not have been there for my friend while his mother was dying and his wife was giving birth to their second child? How could I not have visited Linda, and brought her meals or just hugged her? How could I not have been at the funeral or the shiva? Needless to say I felt terrible.
At the end of my friend's message was his phone number. I called him immediately. His wife answered and through my tears I explained who I was. She handed the phone to her husband. I felt like he was consoling me as I apologized for not being there for him and his family. He said that his mom always loved me and appreciated the special friendship I had with her son.
We briefly spoke about our misunderstanding how it insignificant it was now ten years later. We agreed that it was just nice to be finally talking. He worried about his dad being alone with him living so far away. We talked about work, our spouses and our children. Without spelling it out, we both knew the phone call had meant a lot.
There was a time where after reading a message like my friend's I would have either ignored it or written back a generic line of sympathy. However, three years before I got that message something happened that changed the way I view death and it's aftermath.
My in-laws passed away quite suddenly in their home after not being reachable to my husband and his sister for three days. It was quite a shock. I've often described my grief over their loss as secondary. After all, my first job was to carry my husband's grief and care for the children. Whatever I was feeling would have to wait.
Death is incredibly frightening to people. It's so frightening in fact that people often avoid someone who's grieving because they don't know what to say and possibly, they are afraid that somehow death will touch them if they are near someone who has suffered a loss. Some of my closest friends didn't call, e-mail or send a card to us because they "didn't know what to say." When my husband told one of our neighbors about his loss, her response was, "Oh yeah, I heard, sorry about that." One would have thought he was sharing with her about minor surgery rather than his major loss.
On the other end of that spectrum are all the people who gave of themselves to comfort us. Our rabbi came over and spent three hours with us not only speaking words of comfort and saying prayers, but helping to plan my in-laws' funerals and burials.
I was home alone with the kids when Richard called to tell me what had happened. They were three and one at the time. I called my friends who lived around the corner and they came to pick up Tali (the three year old) so that I could comfort Richard when he arrived. They even offered to keep her overnight. Another friend e-mailed us saying, "I don't want to call and bother you, but I'm bringing you over a hot meal tonight and arranging meals for the rest of the week."
Among those hot meals was one made by one of my former students, a fourteen year old boy who said to his mother, "I want to cook in the synagogue kitchen so that we can make them a kosher brisket since they keep kosher and we don't."
My own parents came over and my mother cried with Richard. They took both kids overnight and while we were back east for the funerals, they cleaned our house so that it would be ready for shiva when we came home.
While we were driving through rural Pennsylvania on our way to the funeral, Richard got a call from a childhood friend whom he hadn't seen or spoken to in twenty-five years. While he was on the phone I could see the emotion swelling up inside him. Before he hung up he said, "Marty, thank you so much for the call. You have no idea what it means to me."
When we returned to California, all kinds of people poured in to our house during shiva. Some of them we knew quite well and some hardly at all. Friends of mine who hadn't met Richard came. They sat and listened to him talk about his parents. I'm sure they have no idea that over three years later I have never forgotten that.
The daughter of some synagogue members came with her parents and said she was there "to help take care of the kids." She went outside with my children and any other children who were there that night. On the first afternoon of shiva I had a baby sitter come over and take my kids to the park. When I tried to pay her she refused my money. "No," she said, "this has been a tough week for you and I'm happy to help."
Three of Richard's closest camp friends flew up from LA for the day to be with Richard. They hung out at our house and made him laugh. One of them took Tali with her to the store with a shopping list from me so that we'd have things in the house that we needed but didn't feel like going out to buy.
Another friend flew out from New York to give Richard comfort. He was at our house only a few hours before he had to fly back to be with his wife and 5 children.
There was another friend whom Richard wanted to see and he asked me to call him and tell him to come, also from LA. He said, "I don't think he'll know that I need him." I didn't even get a chance to call and the next night he was on our doorstep. He too had suffered a loss a few years before and apparently he did know that Richard needed him. As the months went on other friends and family planned trips to see us and this was terrific medicine for our whole family. We couldn't help but feel blessed by the wonderful community we had.
Today, over a year after my friend's mother died Richard, the kids and I went to meet him, his wife and two kids and his sister for a family playdate while they were in town for Thanksgiving. I sat across from his sister whom I had only met briefly over the years.
I was thinking about how much she looked like her mother. I blurted out, "I was so sorry to hear about your mother, she was such a special woman."
"Thank you, yes she was, " she responded.
"I'll never forget how much she liked to feed me when I came over. I was a vegetarian for a long time and she wanted to make sure I was fed." She smiled at that and said, "Aww, that's so sweet."
I could tell she was really happy I'd said something and shared my memories of her mother. I almost didn't. I thought about not bringing up something that might be painful. Then I remembered how other people's hesitancy at giving a condolence to Richard for fear of saying the wrong thing was in and of itself painful. I realized by the smile on her face, that saying something, even if I didn't think it was the right thing, meant more to her than having a friend remember her birthday or treating her to lunch. It was a kindness she would never forget.
Often in our effort to protect people from something painful, we hurt them even more with our silence. We know from Ecclesiastes that silence has it's place. The line, "A time to keep silent and a time to speak," tells us that. Sometimes silence is appropriate when a person is in mourning. Sitting with them and holding their hand can be more comforting than words. However the silence of a friend not reaching out can be deafening. It's never too late to comfort someone, I know that now. When you hear of someone's loss call them, or if you're afraid that you'll be too choked up to talk send them a card or an e-mail. Say just what you are feeling even if it's something like, "I don't know what to say or do for you, but I'm sorry and I'm here."
After reading his message I burst in to tears. How could I not have known? How could I not have been there for my friend while his mother was dying and his wife was giving birth to their second child? How could I not have visited Linda, and brought her meals or just hugged her? How could I not have been at the funeral or the shiva? Needless to say I felt terrible.
At the end of my friend's message was his phone number. I called him immediately. His wife answered and through my tears I explained who I was. She handed the phone to her husband. I felt like he was consoling me as I apologized for not being there for him and his family. He said that his mom always loved me and appreciated the special friendship I had with her son.
We briefly spoke about our misunderstanding how it insignificant it was now ten years later. We agreed that it was just nice to be finally talking. He worried about his dad being alone with him living so far away. We talked about work, our spouses and our children. Without spelling it out, we both knew the phone call had meant a lot.
There was a time where after reading a message like my friend's I would have either ignored it or written back a generic line of sympathy. However, three years before I got that message something happened that changed the way I view death and it's aftermath.
My in-laws passed away quite suddenly in their home after not being reachable to my husband and his sister for three days. It was quite a shock. I've often described my grief over their loss as secondary. After all, my first job was to carry my husband's grief and care for the children. Whatever I was feeling would have to wait.
Death is incredibly frightening to people. It's so frightening in fact that people often avoid someone who's grieving because they don't know what to say and possibly, they are afraid that somehow death will touch them if they are near someone who has suffered a loss. Some of my closest friends didn't call, e-mail or send a card to us because they "didn't know what to say." When my husband told one of our neighbors about his loss, her response was, "Oh yeah, I heard, sorry about that." One would have thought he was sharing with her about minor surgery rather than his major loss.
On the other end of that spectrum are all the people who gave of themselves to comfort us. Our rabbi came over and spent three hours with us not only speaking words of comfort and saying prayers, but helping to plan my in-laws' funerals and burials.
I was home alone with the kids when Richard called to tell me what had happened. They were three and one at the time. I called my friends who lived around the corner and they came to pick up Tali (the three year old) so that I could comfort Richard when he arrived. They even offered to keep her overnight. Another friend e-mailed us saying, "I don't want to call and bother you, but I'm bringing you over a hot meal tonight and arranging meals for the rest of the week."
Among those hot meals was one made by one of my former students, a fourteen year old boy who said to his mother, "I want to cook in the synagogue kitchen so that we can make them a kosher brisket since they keep kosher and we don't."
My own parents came over and my mother cried with Richard. They took both kids overnight and while we were back east for the funerals, they cleaned our house so that it would be ready for shiva when we came home.
While we were driving through rural Pennsylvania on our way to the funeral, Richard got a call from a childhood friend whom he hadn't seen or spoken to in twenty-five years. While he was on the phone I could see the emotion swelling up inside him. Before he hung up he said, "Marty, thank you so much for the call. You have no idea what it means to me."
When we returned to California, all kinds of people poured in to our house during shiva. Some of them we knew quite well and some hardly at all. Friends of mine who hadn't met Richard came. They sat and listened to him talk about his parents. I'm sure they have no idea that over three years later I have never forgotten that.
The daughter of some synagogue members came with her parents and said she was there "to help take care of the kids." She went outside with my children and any other children who were there that night. On the first afternoon of shiva I had a baby sitter come over and take my kids to the park. When I tried to pay her she refused my money. "No," she said, "this has been a tough week for you and I'm happy to help."
Three of Richard's closest camp friends flew up from LA for the day to be with Richard. They hung out at our house and made him laugh. One of them took Tali with her to the store with a shopping list from me so that we'd have things in the house that we needed but didn't feel like going out to buy.
Another friend flew out from New York to give Richard comfort. He was at our house only a few hours before he had to fly back to be with his wife and 5 children.
There was another friend whom Richard wanted to see and he asked me to call him and tell him to come, also from LA. He said, "I don't think he'll know that I need him." I didn't even get a chance to call and the next night he was on our doorstep. He too had suffered a loss a few years before and apparently he did know that Richard needed him. As the months went on other friends and family planned trips to see us and this was terrific medicine for our whole family. We couldn't help but feel blessed by the wonderful community we had.
Today, over a year after my friend's mother died Richard, the kids and I went to meet him, his wife and two kids and his sister for a family playdate while they were in town for Thanksgiving. I sat across from his sister whom I had only met briefly over the years.
I was thinking about how much she looked like her mother. I blurted out, "I was so sorry to hear about your mother, she was such a special woman."
"Thank you, yes she was, " she responded.
"I'll never forget how much she liked to feed me when I came over. I was a vegetarian for a long time and she wanted to make sure I was fed." She smiled at that and said, "Aww, that's so sweet."
I could tell she was really happy I'd said something and shared my memories of her mother. I almost didn't. I thought about not bringing up something that might be painful. Then I remembered how other people's hesitancy at giving a condolence to Richard for fear of saying the wrong thing was in and of itself painful. I realized by the smile on her face, that saying something, even if I didn't think it was the right thing, meant more to her than having a friend remember her birthday or treating her to lunch. It was a kindness she would never forget.
Often in our effort to protect people from something painful, we hurt them even more with our silence. We know from Ecclesiastes that silence has it's place. The line, "A time to keep silent and a time to speak," tells us that. Sometimes silence is appropriate when a person is in mourning. Sitting with them and holding their hand can be more comforting than words. However the silence of a friend not reaching out can be deafening. It's never too late to comfort someone, I know that now. When you hear of someone's loss call them, or if you're afraid that you'll be too choked up to talk send them a card or an e-mail. Say just what you are feeling even if it's something like, "I don't know what to say or do for you, but I'm sorry and I'm here."
*Tears*
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