Sitting shiva

I never want to go to shivas, and I’m always glad I did.

I’m aways so uncomfortable going to shiva visits. They are awkward. I usually don’t know the circumstances that I’m walking into — will people be crying or laughing? It’s socially awkward not to greet people, and honestly, it’s uncomfortable to watch someone cry, express anger, or act avoidant. I’m never sure what to say and must mumble through the departing words of condolence. I kick myself for not reviewing the sentence before entering the house.

It’s also emotionally abrupt to pause whatever I’m doing (which 99% of the time is either working or being with my kids) to be outside of time to sit with a mourner. Then, back to video calls, washing dishes, or playing ping pong.

That said, I try to go when I can. This is a meaningful moment to be present with someone suffering. It’s a mitzvah.

My father died last week, so now I’m sitting shiva. The tables are turned. Now, I’m the one sitting on the low chair. My mirrors are covered, and I’m wearing the same green shirt — which tore in an awkward way, so I’m constantly adjusting it. I haven’t worked out, showered, or left the house. Friends, family, and community members are coming to sit with me. My refrigerator is full of aluminum pans.

It was a complicated relationship, and he was also ill for a long time. The shiva week has been so intense, yet unexpectedly healing. I’ve thought and talked about my dad more in the last few days than I have in the last 30 years. My dearest friends, who I’ve shared long Shabbat afternoons with for 10 or even 20 years, said they were so unsure of what to expect. They know I almost never talked about my dad. Even my cousins weren’t quite sure what to say.

I won’t pretend that I’ve figured this out comprehensively, but I’m processing it rather than avoiding it. I’m proud of myself. For many years, my plan for when he died was to either lie or just not say much. I had started developing a script: “He loved flowers, he was a horticulture and biology professor, he grew up in Greenwich Village and loved books.” I figured that would steer the conversation to how I also like books, and who doesn’t like the Brooklyn Botanical Gardens?! Easy.

I even considered not telling anyone, and simply sneaking through the shiva, shloshim, and year. I clearly didn’t think it through much, because I was so focused on keeping complicated feelings buried. I thought they were safer in a locked box. Sealed in concrete.

When I made shiva calls in the past, I was laser focused on saying the right thing and eliciting the “right” reaction. I wanted to bring comfort, so I would try to say something meaningful or insightful. This was hard. I wanted to reflect something or make a joke that would be appropriate. I’ll be honest, I was also focused on not embarrassing myself. I figured everyone else knew exactly what to say and do.

I used to ask people “what do you think your father/mother’s legacy was?” or some version of that question. I wanted to let them say something nice about their parent. I figured that would help – it would also mercifully pierce the deafening quiet moments I had to fidget through.

From my new low-to-the-ground vantage point, I realize that most visitors seem to feel awkward (except, maybe, for the therapists and clergy). I’m watching people come in, know not to formally greet me but then, kind of, do it anyway. It’s hard for me not to jump up to get the door or offer someone a tissue. So many silences.

I read that Chazal said that the ideal shiva was one where the mourner sits outside on the ground, and the visitors come join and sit silently. Sounds meaningful. I see how that could both be healing and minimize the social awkwardness.

I’ve realized that for myself, it doesn’t really matter what people say. I’m touched to see them, and to know they paused their day to come – even driving from hours away. I reflect on how loved and supported I am. It makes me feel a deep sense of belonging.

I appreciate hearing about other people’s complicated relationships. So many people have offered, “Oh, we should talk.” It’s comforting to see tears in others’ eyes too. Some people simply sit silently. Some people made me laugh or exactly get the joke I’m telling. It’s a mix. All these visitors are bringing a gift of their presence. The variety is notable. My relationships with each of these people differ. I’m overwhelmed emotionally and feel so supported.

I’ll continue attending other people’s shiva visits when the time warrants. I don’t know how I feel, but I hope I’ll be less focused on the social awkwardness and my own discomfort. I hope that sometimes I’ll just sit quietly, sometimes I’ll hug, and sometimes I’ll ask a question.

Rachel Bernstein is a senior product director for Gartner. She lives in Teaneck with her supportive husband and four delightful children.

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