Sitting shiva for my mother

Sunday morning. I wake up, say Modeh Ani, wash my hands, and go straight to the phone, just like I have been doing for the past few weeks. My mother is at the hospital and her health is fragile, so I am checking to see how she is doing.

I unlock my phone. Five missed calls. From my older sister. My brother-in-law. Another brother.

I don’t need to talk to anyone.

I go to the WhatsApp group where everyone usually posts updates. Ten deleted messages. They are worried I shouldn’t find out without someone speaking to me first. But I know everything already.

•

The next few hours have been a whirlwind.

First, there is the Chanukah workshop with the Home Depot. Close to 150 people are supposed to be at our Chabad in less than three hours, and obviously, I am not going to be there. Thanks to my family and a few volunteers who took it over entirely and did a tremendous job. We decided not to tell anyone. There is no need to sour the mood at such a festive event.

A ticket to Israel. Tearing the garment. Saying the blessing I’ve said with so many families as I’ve officiated at their loved ones’ funeral, yet for me, it’s my first time: Baruch Dayan Ha’emet. Blessed is the true judge. My mother, Faiga bas Yaakov, has gone to her world. My shiva is starting now.

•

Information has been going out, and people are trying to be helpful. Some well-meaning people are making light-hearted comments, but my heart isn’t getting any lighter.

“Welcome to the club,” shared with me one person who lost his mother a few years ago. What am I supposed to reply? Thank you? I am glad to be here?

“You have been sentenced to 7 days of house arrest and 11 months of community service,” another message came. I know what he means: during shiva, you are supposed to stay home. And now I will have 11 months of Kaddish.

(By the way, we started new services in Hackensack so that I can say Kaddish; if you can help with that, please contact me.)

I know they mean well, but my heart is not open to any humor.

•

I sit shiva with my family in Kfar Chabad. But for one day, we are traveling back to Afula. This is where I grew up. This is where my parents lived for more than 53 years, after the rebbe sent them as shluchim (emissaries).

The house is not my childhood apartment — my parents moved here after I left — so I go around looking for pictures and memories.

On top of one small table, I find a bag filled with small bags containing two tea lights and a shekel. I know exactly what this is. Every week, my mother OBM would pack these small bags with Shabbat candles and shekels and give them out to many people so they could fulfill the mitzvah of Shabbat candle lighting and put a coin in charity beforehand.

Later, with hundreds of people who came to comfort us, one neighbor, an Israeli attorney from across the street, shared that she would light the candles only because my mother gave her a candle every week.

“Who is going to give me now?” she asks. My family immediately arranged for another neighbor to take this mitzvah over, because such questions should never go unanswered.

[And I feel the urge to add: Do you light Shabbat candles? Do you put a coin in a charity box before this mitzvah? Do you share this beautiful mitzvah with a fellow Jewish woman or girl? If not, do it for my mother.)

•

I landed at Newark Airport at 4 a.m. People offered to pick me up, but I didn’t want to have someone wake up so early for me.

“Your driver is here.” Rafael, the Uber driver, showed up in a beaten-up beige Toyota Civic.

“Did you go visit anywhere interesting?” he asked while I was cramming up the little vehicle. “Israel,” I replied. “Israel? I LOVE ISRAEL!” he almost yelled with happiness. “When I looked at your name, I figured you were Jewish. Menachem. It’s Joseph’s son, correct?”

I was impressed with his knowledge. “No, Joseph’s son’s name was Menashe. My name is Menachem.”

“Who have you been named after?”

“Rabbi Menachem Schneerson.”

“And did he do something that changed history?”

Without thinking twice, I shared the first thing that came to mind.

“Yes, he was a leader of the Jewish people after the Holocaust, and he kept on encouraging Jews not to let sadness define them. The rebbe said, ‘Be a proud Jew, be a happy Jew, you have a mission.’”

“It sounds like he was an important person.”

“Yes,” I affirmed, “And his name was Rabbi Menachem Mendel, and this is my name, too. Many people knew him as ‘the Rebbe.’”

“Ah!!! THE REBBE! Of course I know him!” For the second time in five minutes, Rafael was exuberant.

And for a moment, I felt like this was a message from the rebbe I needed to hear.

Rabbi Mendy Kaminker is the rabbi of Chabad of Hackensack and an editorial member of Chabad.org. He looks forward to your comments at rabbi@chabadhackensack.com.

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