Pebbles on the Grave

When I converted to Judaism, something I learned very early on during a marathon of Jewish and Holocaust movies (not to mention the show Dead Like Me) was the tradition of placing stones on the graves or headstones of the deceased. Where I come from (Christian Middle America), flowers are the item of choice for visiting deceased loved ones. It was a ritual that we partook in every Memorial Day when we'd drive to Kansas City and visit the graves of my grandmother, grandfather, and other relatives buried there. We purchased the plastic, tacky memorial flowers and wreaths, and at some point, days or weeks later, someone would be forced to come through and remove the harmful-to-nature plastic concoctions. 

In 2008, on a genealogy roadtrip, I found the grave of my great grandfather and great grandmother.
Not knowing why, and knowing that they weren't Jewish, I placed stones on their graves.

I never asked anyone why Jews don't do flowers at funerals or gravesites; it was something Jews do. It's part of the choreography of death, following the timeline of shiva (the week-long period of mourning) and matzevah (unveiling of the tombstone). Why didn't I inquire? I might have Googled it, or I might have read about it in a book, but it became part of my personal choreography of being Jewish. Sometimes, we just don't think about the things we do. But perhaps we should.

So, when visiting the grave of a Jew, the custom is to place a small stone on the grave using the left hand. According to Wikipedia, "this shows that someone visited the gravesite, and is also a way of participating in the mitzvah of burial." Likewise, Rabbi Simmons of Aish.com says, "we place stones on top of a gravestone whenever we visit to indicate our participation in the mitzvah of erecting a tombstone, even if only in a more symbolic way." According to Talmud Bavli, Masechet Mo'ed Katan, in Biblical times graves were marked with mounds of stones (an example being when Rachel died), so by placing or replacing the stones, one plays a role in perpetuating the existence of the site and the memory of that person buried there.

But the reality is that stones had been used forever for burial. In ancient times, bodies were covered with large boulders or stones to keep animals from picking away the flesh and desecrating the body. It likely didn't play any kind of religious or supernatural role, but more of a practical role. Perhaps our meaningful act of placing a stone on the grave of a Jew threads back to this practical set of origins. But when did that transition in understanding -- of practical to mitzvah-making -- happen? Who can be sure.

Today, to place a stone on a gravestone says, to me, that I was there, I remembered, and I cared. Ultimately, it's more about the visitor than the buried, I think. What do you think?

As an aside, matzevah actually means monument, and although there is no halachic obligation to hold an unveiling ceremony, in the 19th century it became a popular ritual. Some unveil the tombstone a year after the burial, some a week after the burial. (I've seen the former more than the latter.) In Israel, as it turns out, the stone is unveiled after shloshim, or the first 30 days of mourning.

This blog post came out of my beginning to read "Jerusalem, Jerusalem" by the author of "Constantine's Sword" in combination with finding out that a dear family friend, Zitta Weiss, passed away on August 17. Zitta was a survivor of the Holocaust and an amazing and memorable soul. My first shiva call ever was at the home of Zitta when her brother died. And now? I suppose I'm coming back to where my Jewish bereavement experience began. Back to Zitta's home, but to mourn the woman herself. She was born on May 5, 1929. Baruch Dayan ha'Emet. 

A Reader Request: Shiva

One of my readers sent me this and asked that I post it anonymously -- it's sort of a followup to yesterday's Shiva post. Please spread it around and let me know if you have any answers!

My father is not doing well, and as part of preparing for the inevitable, I'm looking for an online guide to "what to expect when your Orthodox Jewish coworker experiences a death in the family." Something geared to non-jewish completely ignorant bosses that explains why we dont do flowers at funerals and not to bring gifts of food to shiva (which they don't have to come to anyway). And that explains why I'm growing a beard for a month and why I have to leave every day for 30 minutes to catch mincha.  

The online resources I've found so far are general introductions to Jewish mourning customs, but arent really geared to a professional situation where I'm trying to save people trouble and/or social faux pas. Thanks!

Thoughts?

Deconstructing Shiva

In my seven to eight years doing Judaism in some form or another, I've experienced many moments when the thoughts "will I ever get used to this?" and "will this ever make sense to me?" crossed my mind.

Initially, the biggest one was anything that had to do with the Shoah (Holocaust). Either being completely disconnected genetically to anyone involved in anything to do with the Holocaust and thus lacking some chain of emotion and memory, or ending up in a situation where I had to consider the horrors as others related them to me. The Shoah was always a distant beast that I never thought would ever mean something to me, outside of the general horror of what humanity is capable. And then I married Tuvia, who comes from a family with survivors of some immense horrors of the Shoah, and through work on genealogy and tracking down stories and facts about where his family came from, I threaded myself into that memory and now, well, the Shoah is not distant, it's part of who I am.

Now, as I watch a generation fade away, as I become more a part of a community, as I understand new responsibilities, I consider the act of sitting shiva, which is the act of mourning over the seven-day period following the death of one's immediate relatives (mom, dad, brother, sister, spouse, and child). I'm blessed to not have had to even consider sitting shiva at this point in my life, but part of this act of mourning is the communal aspect of "paying a shiva visit" to the grieving party.

In my time doing Judaism, I've paid all of two shiva calls. One was to the home of a friend whose mother passed away far too young from an illness and the other was to one of Tuvia's grandmother's friends, who had lost her brother. The two experiences were starkly different, but both left me feeling uncomfortable in a way I can't describe. I don't know that shiva visits are meant to be comfortable, but for those who grew up Jewish, the whole idea of Jewish mourning is old hat.

For instance, Jews bury their dead almost immediately, preferably the next day. Jews don't put up a headstone until 11 months after the burial of the dead, when they do an unveiling. Jews mourn for seven days and then a month and then a year and then recite kaddish every year on the anniversary of the death of the relative. Jews tear their clothing when someone dies.

Where I come from, when someone dies, you wait until the family can get together, then you plan the funeral, which consists of a service at either a church or the funeral home, complete with songs and testimonies, followed by a long schlep to the cemetery with everyone in tow, a further ceremony there with a pastor or preacher saying words from the bible, then the burial. After that, usually people come to your house with food and linger awkwardly and then leave. After that day, all is over and you go back to your normal life.

At my first shiva call, I met my grandmother-in-law's friend for the first time. She, too, was a Shoah survivor, and as we were sitting in her time capsule of a living room, she shifted in her chair and her shirt sleeve lifted to reveal numbers. I'd never in my life actually seen a tattoo on a survivor. Tuvia's grandmother and her sisters got dog tags instead of tattoos, because by the time they ended up in the camps, it wasn't time effective. I froze, Tuvia carried the conversation, and after some awkward silences, we left. For days afterward, and even today, I remember how uncomfortable I felt. Was I supposed to say something? Do something? Sit quietly? Dance around the room and spit nickels? No one prepared me for the acts of death and mourning.

The second shiva call was heartbreaking. I'd attended the service at the funeral home for my friend's mother -- the place was packed, and the emotion was intense. The entire thing allowed me to really put into perspective my relationship with my own parents and how life is fleeting. When Tuvia and I went to their house that week for a shiva call, it was my first visit. Tuvia had been going all week, like the real mensch that he is, to help make minyan (the quorum of 10 men needed for prayer). The room was small and crowded, and I realized that it was in that room that we sat and noshed that my friend's mother had spent her last days. We had plenty of friends there, and I didn't know what to say or do, again. Silence? Comforting words? Is one's presence enough? We davened and some emotional words were shared. Everyone said their goodbyes, and we went off into the night.

More recently, my husband's uncle, Bert, died. It was unexpected and -- for us -- very sudden. The week of mourning went on as normal, but amid a snow and ice storm, which kept me and my tiny car away. I found myself unable to really cope with the death, unable to grasp the reality of it, because I couldn't go to pay a shiva call. I was both relieved that I would not be faced with the foreign and awkward custom and upset that I had no where or way to grieve.

Is it a Catch 22?

Death is never easy. Can you ever really be prepared? Does growing up with the traditions of death and mourning in Judaism make it easier to grasp? More normative? More regular? Or does it have nothing to do with it?

On a related note, for the media lovers out there: One of the best movies out of Israel in recent years, in my opinion, is a film called Shiva, which has the U.S. title of "The Seven Days." I can't seem to find a website for it, but it's about a large Moroccan Jewish family gathering at the death of one of the sons/brothers. It's a really interesting look at mourning, and what family dynamics are like over a seven-day period of enclosure and emotion. (A review of the movie from the Cannes Film Festival is online.) I recommend watching it ... whether shiva is something you're comfortable or familiar with, this movie will definitely give you a new perspective.