She Said: She Said: The death of a dear friend

Last night, a dear friend called. She didn't sound very good. I wondered if there was something new with her children (she certainly had heard about some of my family's ups and downs), with her or her husband's employment status (she had been privy to part of our saga), with her house hunt, or with some other important item.

Her voice quaking, she told me to sit down. Then she pronounced "Baruch Dayan Emet," and informed me that a mutual friend had passed away.

This friend was in our age group. Our children are his children's peers. His wife is one of my loved others. Our homes have been open to each other on Shabbatot, holidays and ordinary afternoons.

We had just collectively celebrated Yom Ha'atzmaut (see "Friends - Gold and Silver"). He had grilled, as the host of the "silver" gathering. He had made sure there were comfortable chairs and enough food and drink for all comers. He had made necessary introductions. He had led us in an evening of dvarei Torah.

This man was neither a stranger nor a casual acquaintance. He used to sit next to Boy-Getting-Taller during services. He and my husband, Computer Cowboy, used to walk home together regularly after shul on Shabbatot.

He used to help my husband, for smachot, secure and haul tables and chairs from the local gemach. Only a good friend bothers getting sweaty, after a full day of work, for something as unglamorous as moving folded furniture.

This dear man was a learned fellow, a rabbi, in fact, though he didn't advertise his knowledge. Fortunate were the folk who shared a meal with him and heard his dvarei Torah. "By day," though, he worked in a humble vocation. He worked so that his family's klita process could be successful. He loved his family. He loved Eretz Yisrael.

The levayah will take place shortly. The pain will linger. I cannot imagine the feelings in his wife's heart or in the neshemot of his daughters. My family, and the other families who love his, will do our best to support these friends.

The loss will go beyond the burial, beyond the week of shiva, beyond the shloshim. Each holiday without this father/husband, each season, each engagement, each wedding and each birth will all be inflected with the whisper of loss.

- Channie

Kohelet says that there is a time for everything. A time to plant and a time to reap, a time to talk and a time to be silent, a time to be born and a time to die. 

Somehow, though, there seems to be no right time for death.

I don't know if I'll ever be able to accept death for what it is; the end of life. It's surreal for me to bury a friend and to think that I will never see him again. But I have to accept death and move on.

A heard a speech from a rabbi recently. He said that the week of shiva is not an end but rather a beginning, and that the shiva week helps the family move on. I suppose that we must find the happiness in everything and keep that happiness when things seem hard.

The Nine Days, the time when we mourn the loss of the Temple, just ended. It was a sad time for me, but I don't feel that I mourned properly. I never had the Temple to lose, and thus was unable to feel the loss. I don't know what I'm missing.

Losing a friend is different. A friend is someone you know and care about. You miss them when they're not there. A friend is someone whose death you can't accept, even when you stand at his grave. Even though the levayah pronounced his name and you yourself heard the eulogies, you can't accept that you won't see him again.

In the midst of my grief, I try to remind myself that I have no need to cry. I will see him tomorrow; Moshiach is coming!

-Becca