Dad Chronicles: Mourn with those who Mourn

 I'm sitting with my coffee, at my desk, with my planner.  I always write in pencil in my planner because... plans change.

Two weeks ago, my planner was filled with tasks like giving haircuts... preparing food for the sabbath, and also with plans for attending our friend's father's funeral... And then Friday evening, after lighting shabbat candles and sitting at the table, we got the phone call that changed everything.

I never even touched that challah I had baked earlier in the day.

So I sit here looking blankly at blank pages on the planner.  The only thing on my list of tasks for the entire week?  Survive.

Ah, grief, you're so consistent.

I'm still coming in and out of a fog.  I'm still really sad, but keenly aware of how blessed I am - and how blessed we all were to have my Dad... and just so many things.  We had parents who stayed together - til death parted them.  

Mom & Dad's sweet neighbor shared with me yesterday a post she put up a few years ago, back when she would leave work the same time as my Dad... she watched him backing out of the driveway, window rolled down, waving and blowing kisses to my mom.  This seventy-something year old man still blowing kisses to his girl after over 40 years of marriage.

When she shared that memory with me, I could actually visualize it - because I saw stuff like that my whole life.

Yes, we have always been very blessed.

I have things I want to do - things I need to do - but they feel far away, and unattainable and I feel mentally tired.

I feel physically tired too, although I've mostly been able to get an amazing amount of sleep.  But this is how it goes, and I know that.

I still have these moments throughout the day where I picture Dad in my head and I literally - very literally - cannot believe he is gone.  It is the most surreal thing I think I've ever experienced.

I'm just sharing some of the ins and outs of how it's going...

Jews have a tradition when someone dies - it's called "Sitting Shivah".  It comes from the Hebrew word Sheva, the number seven.  It's the practice of sitting and mourning - and sitting with those who are mourning - for seven days following the burial of a loved one.

You've actually seen this if you've watched The Chosen - the series about Jesus and His disciples.  The second season opens up with an amazing episode ... the first scene is set far after Jesus has returned to the Father... the disciples and Jesus' mother Mary are are visibly older... the reference is subtle, but they've all gathered together to sit Shiva because of the death of John's brother James.

I believe this is also why the disciples were all gathered together in the same place after Jesus' crucifixion ... 

Going much further back, we can also see an example of this in the book of Job, when this righteous man  has lost everything, and his friends come and sit with him for seven days and seven nights, just to mourn with him.  (Job 2:11-13)

I think this is a beautiful practice in which, sadly, most of don't get to participate.  Instinctively we know, and our bodies tell us, to be still.  Just wait.  Just let the heaviness settle upon us.  Just reflect.  Just mourn.

Death is intimate.  So very intimate.  It's a shame we try to convince ourselves to get up from the ashes so quickly ... wash our face, and make a to-do list.  It shouldn't be this way.

It's Friday again, and I'm debating about making that challah.  I'll go about the day preparing food for my family, of course.  But mostly I'm still giving myself grace - giving my family grace... giving us all space to take in the ebb and flow of grief.

All of you have been so patient and understanding while I've posted here and social media... about almost nothing else but my Dad and our loss.  We live in a time of clicks and instant gratification, but you've all been so kind to actually read what we write... take a few minutes to look at pictures of my Dad and listen to the stories we've told.

 In a way, you've been Sitting Shivah with us... listening,... comforting... showing your respect when you acknowledge our grief and the great man we lost.

Thank you for that... thank you for sitting here with me.