A Club No One Wants to Join

The experience of loss is jarring.  Whether preceded by a long illness or a sudden, unexpected parting, it is impossible for the survivors to return to a place of blythe ignorance of the pain induced by the mourning process.

What I learned from my own experience of mourning for my father makes me feel both more hesitant and more determined to do my part in offering comfort when the time arises.  

As a friend commented to me in the aftermath of losing her father, "the worst possible thing has happened - how can there be any more sorrow left in the world!"  So true.  It is unthinkable that so much pain can exist, and knowledge and understanding of the toll my own pain took and the road I've had to travel since only makes such news even harder to bear.

I know I cannot comprehend anyone else's feelings of grief and loss.  There are so many many human variables at play.  

And yet, I feel. 

From the other side of the curtain, I find myself tearing up at news of the death of a stranger's aged parent.  I cry for a bereft adult child who has lost a parental confident after many years of love and support.  And I cannot fathom the loss endured by young children with so many milestones to be experienced in the absence of a beloved parent.  And other unspeakable losses... There are no words.

And yet, I feel. 

I feel news of loss more deeply and more keenly than I ever did.  Making it simultaneously easier to empathize and harder to offer comfort, because I know that platitudes are not helpful.  

It is a painful conundrum. 

I cannot offer happy hopes that the pain will swiftly go away... because I know it will not.  I cannot visit a shiva house without experiencing flashbacks of my own period of intense grief and I wish with all my heart that there was any kind of fix - something I could offer that would make a real impact and lesson the pain of the other.  And yet, when I was sitting shiva, I found the greatest comfort from those whose faces showed that they understood - and my heart cried for them too.  

The experience of losing a family member inducts you into a club that no one wants to join - and even so, we are lucky that Jewish tradition offers beautiful mechanisms such as shiva, kaddish & community/shabbat meals, etc. to help us connect to each other.   I feel truly grateful to have found support from my community during my most difficult time and I hope that my experience has, in some way, helped others to find some solace from their own pain.  And in my heart of hearts, I wish I could close the club membership so no one would experience further loss or pain.  At least not until 120 years. 

The Blessing of My Tears

Written in memory of my father, Maury Joseph Fechter  מרדכי יוסף בן שמואל on his 2nd Yortzeit, כד׳ אב.

In honor of my father's 2nd Yortzeit, I have a special request: Please don't apologize for my tears!

In the last two years, I've experienced such a variety of emotions that it is sometimes hard to sort them all out.  Sadness, loss, grief, anger, love, pride, joy, excitement, longing... the list continues.  Getting married was a true emotional high and such a joyous day.  Walking to the chuppah without my father by my side was something I had never imagined. 

I've cried so many kinds of tears in the last two years that it is impossible to keep track... and sometimes impossible to hold them back.  And I don't want to.  

Each tear is love.  

Each and every tear is a memory, part and parcel with the emotions it triggers.  

And each tear keeps my father close to me in ways that I cannot describe.  But I will try. 

I am so very proud to be my father's daughter.  He was a kind and compassionate man, who quietly tried to take away pain wherever he could.  The Rabbi who conducted my new niece's naming drew a comparison to spices... everyone who met my father walked away with a positive experience.  What a high bar he set for the little granddaughter who carries his name!  

My father was a talented and gentle dentist who preferred not to be any more intrusive than necessary.  I miss him every time I schedule an appointment to sit in the dental chair.  Moreover, he was a dental therapist, who helped calm the emotional nerves, while the novicane controlled the physical ones. 

I tear up when I hear a familiar cadence, or when my husband unknowingly uses a similar mannerism.  I cry to think that my husband never met my father and will never know how wonderfully similar they are in kindness and caring and compassion (as well as punniness and culinary interests).  

I know it sounds like I'm crying all the time (inside, if not outwardly), but I'm not.  I live my life as my father would wish, experiencing positive, happy emotions on a daily basis as well.  Sometimes months go by without a tear.  Sometimes the floodgates open with a particular trigger.  I generally cope pretty well, with moments of weakness here and there.  I'm choosing to give voice to those moments now because they have become a part of me and a part of my process.  And because one thing I wish more people understood about grief is that I'm not ashamed of my tears.   

I get emotional when thinking about my memories and also when I'm afraid that my memories are getting lost. I'm angry at my father for leaving without warning and, at the same time, glad he didn't suffer.  I miss asking him my dental questions - no one will ever take as good care of me in that chair as he did.  And I miss the memories I'll never have - of him meeting my husband, walking me down the aisle, and holding my children.  

It's a mixed deck, but it's the hand I've been dealt.  My biggest fear is that with time he'll slip away completely.  That I'll stop crying one day for good.  And I can't bear that thought.  Because I want to feel.  I need to remember.  I must tell his grandchildren and great-grandchildren what a wonderful Zayde they had.  

Sometimes the tears run quietly down my face, and sometimes they are accompanied by sobs.  Sometimes they simply glisten at the corners of my eyes.  Sometimes there are long dry spells; while sometimes they come in a flood.  But each one is an expression of love.  A memory.  A thought or a feeling.  

Each one tells me that I can still feel.  And for that I'm truly grateful.  

So please, please... don't apologize for my tears.  Offer me a tissue or a hug, or better yet, offer a memory or ask me to share one with you.  Help me remember, help me feel, and most of all, let me add my tears to the river of memory. 

A New Normal

Everyone says that firsts are hard.  After experiencing a second Yom Kippur, I think that seconds can arguably be worse.  First occasions: holidays, birthdays, milestones truly are difficult to weather with a missing loved one.  But by the time the second one comes around, it’s the beginning of a new routine. The distraction provided the initial outpouring of sympathy is mostly gone and you are left alone with the reality that your loved one really isn't coming back. And that realization can be just as hard, if not harder.  It's a different kind of pain - less acute and raw and more of a subtle dull throbbing.

It niggles underneath all of the other mundane thoughts: How can we move on when our loved one is not with us?

And now I’m beginning to wonder if I just imagined it all to begin with… has the father I remember become a figment of my imagination?

I know this may sound crazy to some, but for me, this whole experience is tinged with an element of disbelief.  Initially, I felt a sense of unreality because my father died so suddenly, with no warning or preparation or closure.  At the funeral, I felt like a character in an alternate reality: in the “real” or “parallel story,” my father lived a full life, celebrated his children’s weddings and had the opportunity to dote on and enjoy his grandchildren.  In this fictional narrative, the pallbearers are his grandsons and great-grandsons, instead of only loving nephews. In the harsher world of reality, my brother and I both planned our weddings during the year of mourning, and instead of playing with him, my father's grandchildren will bear his name.

Now that my wedding is approaching in a couple of months, this element of disbelief continues.  How can my father not be here to walk me down the aisle?! How can I get married without him?!  And how is it possible that my wonderful fiance, who had to comfort me through a year of Kaddish and endless stories, never got to meet him in real life?

How can this be?

In the beginning, it just felt strange, knowing my father was not going to be present for holidays and milestones.  Now, reality is setting in, with a rough introduction to the concept of “never.” It’s the start of a new normal, and I don’t like it at all.  

But like most things in life, I don’t get a choice.  A year of Kaddish was a logistical challenge, but also cathartic. It was a bit like summer camp, with the crazy schedule and socialization born of repeat encounters with fellow minyanaires. Not to mention, thrice daily opportunities to reflect and cry and miss my father in a real, palpable way.

Now that the first year has passed, I cannot continue to maintain the frenetic pace of barrelling down the street before shacharit, interrupting client sessions to catch mincha, and finding maariv after 9 or 10 PM. Moving forward is hard, but it doesn’t mean I love my father less or that I won’t miss him during all kinds of moments big and small.  I don’t have to like it, but I do have to live it, even if the reality stinks. Surreal or not, this is the hand I've been dealt and there are beautiful occasions coming that deserve my attention, energy and emotions. My father would want me to embrace them and his memory deserves nothing less.

Which leaves me getting used to a new normal - and to an even newer understanding of what that means compared to when I first wrote about the concept a year ago. The thing that helps the most, I've found, is the support of my friends, family, and community. It was hard to look forward to getting married without my father, until a friend started singing Od Yishama over the phone in response to news of our engagement. It didn't begin to feel real until my fiance's extended family started kilili-ing in our honor. And when the year ended and my cousins surprised me with a bridal shower (in my own home!!!), it finally became possible for me to start to get excited about the wedding. Shopping expeditions post-mourning have been a proactive way to help me prepare for upcoming events and start feeling fresh and pretty again with a new wardrobe. But most importantly, friends reaching out, asking about the wedding, making plans to be present and celebrate at the out of town event itself or during sheva berachot... these have been important and necessary steps in helping me bridge the gap between grief and living.

I don’t want to feel my father's loss any less, but I cannot hold onto such an acute hurt forever. I know I can see the thestrals, but I don't have to stand alone when I do. If I have learned anything from this experience, it is that real, human interactions, connections and relationships can add a much-needed cushion to the pain of loss and grief. It's a different reality to the one I envisioned at the funeral, but it has its own inherent beauty that I can't and won't ignore. I count myself lucky that I have been blessed, not only with happy occasions to look forward to, but to friends I can truly count on to see me through the hard times and help me celebrate the good times that are coming.

May we all merit to see only simchas!

Balancing Security and Visitor Access

From a security perspective, it goes without saying that synagogues and religious institutions in this day and age need to be cautious about security.  There are numerous strategies that I've seen exployed at the many shuls I have visited on this Kaddish tour, including live security guards, cameras, and pass codes, among others both visible and not.  These institutions want to ensure that the individuals entering their premises are there for genuine and appropriate reasons.  And they have every right to be selective in whom they admit and whom they do not. 

From a Jewish perspective, it is a beautiful mark of community that someone can join a minyan anywhere in the world and find familiar texts and rhythms included in the service.  I am constantly I awe of how the routines of halacha, and minyan in particular, bring together individuals with diverse languages, perspectives and experiences to achieve a common goal.  I continue to be amazed at how the word "Kaddish" is a universal password that elicits warmth, compassion and welcome. 

Except when it's not...

And when that exclusion is a function of circumstance and security features operating all too well. 

Last night, my fiance and I tried to catch a late Maariv at a synagogue we had not attended before.   We elicited help via Facebook to identity a likely minyan in our target area.  As we arrived (on time due to distance, rather than early as is my usual practice at new venues), we observed several men walking toward the entrance.  We felt we could relax, we made it in time. We parked the car and approached the entrance ourselves.  Unfortunately, by the time we reached the doors, they were locked.  Ringing the bell on the intercom did nothing, as the office wss closed at 9:45 PM.  There was no number pad in sight to try the usual suspects.  I even approached someone sitting in a parked car, having no idea if he would be friend or foe, to see if I could glean any information.  

I was not looking for the pass code.  Why would I, a visitor on one occasion so far, need access to sensitive security information?

What I did wish, was for a way to alert the people inside the minyan that there was someone outside who wanted to recite Kaddish.  We had no way to reach anyone or seek help until the service was over.  

For ten minutes we stood outside, trying every means we could think of to gain access.  When I finally saw movement in the lobby, I sprinted to the door to ask to be let in to say Kaddish.  I was answered with regret that the service had ended. 

To the credit of the congregation, when they heard what happened, almost everyone there filed back into the chapel to say a chapter of tehillim so that I could say Kaddish at the end of it.  I am grateful for this kindness and show of support and acceptance after the unfortunate ordeal.

And now I wonder... what is the solution? 

If this happened to me, it can happen to others, and I can't imagine I'm the first to miss a service for lack of communication with the minyan.   The reality is that while catching a minyan is not a life and death situation, minutes still matter and emotions are particularly raw. 

So perhaps the synagogues that rely on passcodes for access might consider a sign for visitors, with a phone number of someone inside the minyan, or a bell, that can alert those inside that someone would like to join.  The synagogue office is typically not open during minyan times, so an alternative point of communication is important.  Perhaps this visitor information about communication could also be posted on the website. 

Ultimately, the question remains for each institution to wrestle with: how can it ensure the security of its members while also opening the door to visitors who genuinely wish to connect. 

More Perspectives from the Other Side of the Mechitza - by Michal Greenspan

Michal Greenspan has bravely and graciously agreed to share her perspective as a regular minyan attendee and a woman who is NOT saying Kaddish.  May she not need to learn about Kaddish until 120 on all sides, and may we benefit from her wisdom to improve the experience of Minyan for all, men and women inclusive.  

It is inspiring that Michal focuses on the varying reasons why people attend minyan and emphasizes the positive: "Understanding what makes other people connect to elements of religion can be inspiring and thought-provoking, and so I encourage you to continue to learn why people do what they do. But be sensitive.... Not everyone shows up to shul for the same reason. That’s what makes us interesting."

Michal also writes: "I wanted to share what it means to be on the other side of the mechitza when you’re not saying Kaddish. To be trying to connect, only to be made to feel like an outcast..." Isn't it a shame that someone so committed to exploring and building her relationship with both God and her community is made to feel this way? No wonder so many women find minyan attendance a challenge when they are not compelled by circumstances!

On a personal note, women like Michal have been my mainstay during these last few months. It has been heartening to have the companionship of other women during the service, especially those whose arrival does not break my heart through the shared grief of a joint Kaddish. Standing lonely on the other side of a barrier is no picnic, and only heightens the experience of loss and disconnection that a mourner can feel - especially when compared to the camaraderie and social capital that builds among men on the other side of the Mechitza. This is one of the reasons I stopped attending daily minyan many years ago, long before I was faced with Kaddish. Wouldn't it be beautiful to see a community of women in attendance every morning - mourners and non-mourners alike - so that those of us reciting Kaddish could have someone to turn toward us and respond? I yearn for the day when women's weekday attendance can grow to a place where I can greet others with "Good Morning" rather than "I'm sorry for your loss."

Perhaps this begins by encouraging women to attend Minyan once a week, on any day of the week - not as an attempt to obligate ourselves in the time-bound commitment but to simply help us find that elusive spiritual connection long before Kaddish enters the picture. Or perhaps it begins with some important steps on the part of the community to ensure that women feel comfortable once they do arrive. Either way, let's brainstorm together how to ease the path for all. Please use the comments as a forum to share ideas and thoughts for supporting the women of our collective community.



By Michal Greenspan

It’s been about 5 months since I’ve been attending morning minyan on a regular basis. What started as a quasi-experiment, has become a ritual routine, so embedded in my daily schedule, that without it I feel un-whole- which is unexpected, considering there have been long stretches of times in my life that I didn’t daven at all.

My mother has always been extremely spiritual. “Jewish music is food for the soul,” she says. JM in the AM would blare on the radio every morning before school, and every month I wake up to a text reminding my brothers and me that it’s Rosh Chodesh.

When I was younger my mother would try to encourage me to daven on Friday nights or Sunday mornings, but I was generally apathetic and somewhat cynical. And as I got older, she stopped asking. Instead, she would simply do. She’d pause our Friday night conversations to recite Kabbalat Shabbat or delay a Sunday morning activity so she could finish saying Tehillim.

I grew up in a house of brothers. I never felt left out of their minyan attendance. Honestly, I felt grateful. Being religious is hard. I wasn’t looking to add another thing to the list of dos and don'ts. I was never the woman who wanted to Lain, or carry the Torah, or put on Tefillin. In so many ways, I just didn’t care.

I used to make fun of my mom for her spirituality. I grew up in a house of faith, but in schools of logic, ritual, & thought. I spent more time learning Gemara than Nach. I was taught to think critically. To find meaning in text rather than song.

And yet, as I’ve gotten older, and gotten further and further from the years of formal Jewish education, I’ve found myself looking for ways to connect. And surprisingly, it has been through elements of religion that I used to laugh off. Zmirot. Jewish Music. Tefillah. I think more than anyone, I am the most surprised by how much the religious experiences I connect to have changed over time.

Recently someone asked me why I go to minyan. “Are you saying Kaddish?” he asked. And on multiple levels, the question stung. Because no, thank God, I am not, although I am surrounded on a daily basis by men and women who have committed their time to doing so. Would you ask a man that question, I wondered? Would I be more or less offended if I actually were saying Kaddish? I understood on some level why he asked. Most of the women who come to minyan say Kaddish. I would be lying if I said that when a new woman appears at minyan, I don’t look up during Kaddish to see if she too is part of the mourners club. Because we have been raised in a world where the norm is for women to show up once a week, often hours late, without any explanations or demands to do better. I’m not here to reform these expectations. As a community could we do more to encourage women to participate more? Of course! There are a million things we could be doing better, hundreds of ways we could up our standards. But I think a simple place to start is creating spaces where women feel just as comfortable as men to show up every morning to daven, without having to be the only ones to answer the question of “why are you here?” I’m happy to explain why; I know why you’re asking. But how many men have been asked the same question?

To say I started going to minyan because I was seeking religious guidance and connection only would be a lie. Sure a part of it was what many seek from religion. To feel part of something larger than themselves. To feel inspired. But I’ve realized, as I’ve been getting older and needing to learn to manage my own time, that structure is something I require. And so, honestly, a big part of Minyan for me has been adding another element of structure to my day, both religiously and logistically. It’s also really been about trying to focus. To try to stretch out the time I devote to thinking about what I want, or need, or am grateful for to more than the five minutes I used to carve out in between getting dressed and eating breakfast (which I’ll admit is not always successful).

There have been both men and women who have been encouraging of my daily routine. Whether it be a simple smile or wave of recognition when they see me on the street outside of shul, or a simple remark that they’re impressed that I go, which I don’t find offensive because honestly, I’m impressed by anyone who goes. It’s hard. And maybe it shouldn’t be. We don’t congratulate people for keeping kosher or Shabbat. But in the world we live in, minyan has become a challenge, and finding ways to connect to God is really really difficult, and it would be unfair of me to say that it’s easy for anyone.

At the same time, I think people overhype it sometimes. I was reluctant to write about my experience. Even to talk about it. Mostly because although minyan is somewhat public, for me it is personal. I do it for myself. I don’t expect others to congratulate me or pat me on the back for committing to something. Everyone makes commitments- religious or personal- public or private that can be challenging or easy.

But I’m sharing for a few reasons.

Because I found something that works for me. That works on religious and logistical levels for me at this time in my life and in some ways has become a little easier for me than I expected. And so I’m trying to lean into it. I’m not saying this to minimize my commitment, rather to say that it doesn’t have to be this. It doesn’t have to be every day. It doesn’t have to be religious, or public, and it doesn’t need to require waking up early. And so if you find something similar or wholly different, but something that brings you some sense of fulfillment I hope you try to embrace it, because your ability to commit to it may surprise yourself most out of everyone.

Because I found my mother’s actions inspiring, but maybe you connect to written words, and so here they are. I’m not a Rabbi or teacher by any stretch of the imagination. But I’m aware that there are many elements of my religious and personal life that require more effort and could use more growth. I’ve found reading other people’s experiences to be helpful at varying moments in my life, whether it be as a point of connection, inspiration or even contradiction so if this helps encourage you or make you think differently in any way, then I’ll be glad I shared.

And I wanted to share what it means to be on the other side of the mechitza when you’re not saying Kaddish. To be trying to connect, only to be made to feel like an outcast in the hopes that maybe we can try to be a little better. It’s ok to ask why I go to minyan. Understanding what makes other people connect to elements of religion can be inspiring and thought-provoking, and so I encourage you to continue to learn why people do what they do. But be sensitive. Ask everyone. Men too. Understand that your questions may be laced with bias whether intended or not, or simply try to ask without a sense of judgment or assumption. I’ve found, it’s much easier to learn this way. Not everyone is saying Kaddish for the same reason. Not everyone shows up to shul for the same reason. That’s what makes us interesting. That’s what makes this religion thoughtful and bigger than just a group of people going through the same motions like robots.

And I think on a more personal level, I also wanted a way to express something that maybe everyone else already knew, but I’m just starting to learn; my relationship to Judaism and God is in constant flux, and the things that once made me scoff, make me feel inspired. And the cynicism I thought had been embedded in my religious observance, was simply just an emotional reaction like any other, that has the ability to change with time and with experience. And that’s what makes religion dynamic and exciting. And I think maybe it’s what makes our connection with God an actual relationship. And maybe tomorrow I’ll wake up cynical again. Who knows? But for now, this works. So I’m trying to embrace it.

What Can I Do To Help?

"Kids, when your best friend loses someone, you drop everything and rush to his side, only to find yourself standing there with no idea what to do or say."  
                  - Episode: "Last Words," How I Met Your Mother 


It's hard to know how to help, even if you have experienced loss before.  Every loss is different and every person grieves differently, but there are some concrete steps you can offer in an attempt to ease the difficult time.  Just remember that not all gestures will be accepted and appreciated by everyone, so tread forward with care and sensitivity. 

During Shiva:

• Pay a shiva call.  
• You don't have to say anything at all.  Your presence alone will show the mourner you care and they will talk to you (or not talk) as the spirit moves them.
• Your simple presence brings much comfort in this time, whether you are a close friend or a more distant connection.    
•  Send in a meal.
• Be advised - some Shiva homes are overwhelmed with offers of food and meals, while others have fewer connections reaching out to help.  Try to find out the lay of the land - who is coordinating, what meals are needed for the week.  
• Aim for variety and/or try to find out what foods the mourners prefer - healthy, dessert, snacks, drinks, cut vegetables, etc.  Try to help mourner retain normal eating routine, though eating may be a challenge at this time.  Don't be offended if your offer is not accepted or enjoyed in the way that you hoped.
•  Offer to coordinate offers of assistance or help direct offers to the Point Person.
• For meal planning, there are websites that can help with this: mealtrain.com or TakeThemAMeal.com.  
• There should be a point person coordinating orders of this nature as well as the mourners' needs throughout the week, re: minyan, shopping, food, medical concerns, etc.   
• Once you know who the point person is, help direct other friends to that person so the offers of help can be coordinated in a way that is constructive without adding unnecessary extra work. 

After Shiva

Note: the mourner will need support for a long time to come.  Here are some actions that can be taken throughout the year and years to follow.

• Put a note in your calendar several months out to reach out.  
• There is often a beautiful outpouring of help offered to mourners during Shiva and even during the weeks of the Shloshim.  However, as life gets back to normal, people fall back into usual routines and the outreach grows much more scarce.
• Phone calls throughout the year are welcome and appreciated because they help the mourner feel the support of the community, while they are still grieving for their lost relative. 
• Don't be hurt if the phone call is not returned immediately.  I received many emails/calls/texts/facebook messages/etc. during Shiva and after.  I have not forgotten the feelings they engendered, nor the people who sent them.  Each one helped me to feel the love of my friends and community, even if I was unable to respond in what most would call a "reasonable timeframe."  
• Assist or keep them company during routine household tasks.
• I found challenges in accomplishing things that once came easily, which lasted for months after shiva.  
• Organizing paperwork, paying bills, cleaning my apartment, planning meals, shopping, laundry, and even returning phone calls might have been easier with someone nearby, encouraging me to put one foot in front of the other.  
• Go ahead and offer to assist with a specific task, but don't be offended if this offer is not accepted.  It may be embarrassing for the mourner to ask for this kind of assistance, or it may not even cross the mourner's mind (it didn't for me except once or twice for big projects), but when I did have the company, it was very helpful.  
•  Perform or help with a specific task: 
• example: "I'm going to the grocery store, pharmacy, etc. this afternoon.  What can I pick up for you?"
• or even suggest specific items: "Can I bring you Orange Juice, toilet paper, Advil, etc."  
•  Company for a minyan.  
• For both men and women saying Kaddish, this is not an easy step, especially in the first days, and company can be helpful for moral support.
• Note - for myself, I always appreciated the company, even when I was simultaneously concerned that my saying Kaddish - so painful for me - might also be painful to my friends who had not yet experienced loss.  I was afraid to make others hurt on my behalf (it is still difficult for my mother to hear me recite the Kaddish). 
• Attending minyan with a friend in mourning is a kind, generous gift, just prepare in advance for the emotional impact both on you and on them. 
•  Go out for a walk, a museum, a drink.
• Find out what restrictions the mourner is observing during the period of Aveilut and find an activity that falls within accepted parameters.  
• Distractions are good (at least they were for me).
• Allow the conversation to flow.
• Note - grief is different than depression.  The mourner need not (should not) be focused exclusively on their loss all the time.   Moments will come that trigger strong emotions of sadness, but mourners will experience a full range of emotion throughout the year.  
• It is not necessary to continually redirect the conversation to focus on the loss or ask how the mourner is feeling.  Asking what the mourner is doing at the moment will allow the mourner to guide the conversation in the direction that best suits their mood.
• Allow them to enjoy moments when they do not focus on their absent loved one - the moments when they do remember will be plentiful enough. 
• Invitations to Shabbat meals or to spend a Shabbat/holiday at your home.
• The mourner may feel lonely at times, especially around Shabbat and holidays.  Even if the offer is not accepted (for whatever reason - prior obligation, etc.), the invitation will help the mourner feel loved, wanted and appreciated.  
• Exercise.
• Offer to go out for a run, attend an aerobics, yoga, spin class, or something you know is in the mourner's ballpark.  
• Setting aside time and motivation to work out can be challenging, as time seems to take on new meaning and move slower/differently than before the loss.  Helping to encourage healthy routines (in a pleasant, friendly way) and offering your company & moral support may be appreciated.  

A Word of Caution:  
While we know you mean well, sometimes open-ended offers are hard to accept.  Here are two phrases I heard very often...  and how they often landed, especially early on.  If you have used these words in the past, don't waste time feeling bad.  Just please keep these nuances in mind for the future.

[Reposting from "What to Say (and Not to Say)"

• “Let me know how I can help.”  
• I know you mean well, but now I have to a) remember that you offered, b) think about your want/need to help me, c) find a job for you, d) look up your phone # or contact info, and e) reach out and ask you to do it.  You really want to help?  Call me with a specific offer.  I’ll know you’re there and willing to help and will be more likely to either give you a job right then or think of you later when I need the same job done.  Remember, I don’t know yet what I’ll need to get me through the next days and weeks and months, and the needs may change and evolve with time.  Please don’t be offended if I don’t take you up on this well-intentioned offer.
• “Call me if you need anything or want to talk.”
• Ditto above. The sentiment is sweet it's hard for me to keep track of all these generous offers. For now, checking in every so often and asking what I'm up to (rather than how I'm doing) will be much appreciated.]

These are just a few ways to help... throughout the year and beyond.  Use this list as a jumping off point for brainstorming additional ideas.  Please feel free to share them in the comments.  The more we gather, the more equipped we will all be to support those in our community when the need arises.

Insensitive Speech for $1000 - Please Keep Your Judgements and Backhanded Compliments to Yourself

I know that it can be hard to find the right words of comfort in the face of someone else's grief.  There are times when I struggle to know what to say or how to help.  Choosing words is not always easy, however, I've come to discover that there are some comments that cause more harm than help.  

I'm sure that there are good intentions behind these comments.  However, on reaching the recipient, they can be less than complimentary or even exclusive.  You may note that some of these comments are gender-specific or may affect a woman very differently than a man hearing the same words. 

If you find yourself leaning toward any of the statements on this list, please consider the nuances and alternate meanings described below.  As a general rule of thumb, be mindful of the questions you ask any mourner, but certainly, don't ask a woman any questions you would never think of asking a man. If you can think of additional comments that would be preferable, please share so we can enhance this list with constructive advice for those who seek it.

Charged Comment: Is anyONE in the Shloshim?

• This one really caught me at the beginning of my foray into Kaddish.  Fresh out of the shiva house, I would be waiting for the service to begin, perhaps chatting with someone else in the synagogue, and all of a sudden, the word shloshim caught my attention as surely as a "squirrel!" running through the room.  Yes, I'm in the shloshim, I responded immediately in my head.  Then realizing that the men were looking for a MAN to lead the service, I realized on the second beat that those asking were not computing the fact of my presence or my pain in being both summoned and excluded at the same time.  

Try this instead: "Does anyONE have a chiyuv (obligation)?"

• In an Orthodox setting, the halachic obligation to lead a service, pray with a minyan, falls squarely on the men.  While I am choosing to recite Kaddish regularly this year to honor my father's memory, I do not have the same obligation as a man to lead the service and I accept this differential by choosing to attend an Orthodox synagogue to recite Kaddish.  Thus, this is the best way to make this announcement in this setting (in my opinion) and encompasses both Shloshim, Yortzeit and the year of Aveilut.
• Another option: "Is anyMAN in the Shloshim?"  
• This question at least acknowledged my presence in the room and my pain in being bereft of my parent.  The anyONE question tries to be inclusive, yet does not address the elephant in the room which is known by any who choose to pray in an Orthodox setting.  Being direct and acknowledging the obvious goes a long way.  

Charged Comment: "Wow, you go to Minyan 3 times a day!  That's a lot!"

• This comment hits in two ways, depending on who is speaking.  One perspective hits like a backhanded compliment: "Wow, that's so impressive that you make the effort to go so much!"  In my head, I want to respond: "Ok, thanks, but I'm not going because I want to... I'm going because it feels like the right thing to do while I'm mourning my father."
• The other side comes across more as a judgment "Why are you bothering to go to synagogue so often? Don't you know that women aren't obligated in this?"  To which I want to respond: "Yes, I do know, and I've encountered many challenging situations as a woman entering a man's space to say kaddish.  It's definitely not easy, and often more challenging for me than for the men who are in the same position.  And yet, it still feels like the right thing to do for me at this time to honor my father as I move through the mourning process.  So please keep your judgments to yourself." 

Try this instead: "That takes dedication."  

• Keep it neutral, and try to keep the judgment out of your voice.  If you want to continue the conversation, try one of these.  I have plenty to say about the experience itself, but I'd rather not feel the need defend my choices in casual conversation.
• What have you learned?  
• What have you found meaningful? 
• What challenges have you encountered?

Charged Comment: "Don't you have any brothers?"

• There are many ways to answer this, but all of them ask me to defend my choice to recite kaddish myself.  I am my father's child - why shouldn't I honor him by saying Kaddish? 
• What if I don't have any brothers?  Does that mean I should outsource Kaddish to someone outside the family simply because I am my father's daughter and not his son?  Why can't I also honor my father by saying Kaddish as his CHILD?  
• What if I have a brother who is choosing a different path?  For starters, it's not your place to remind me of this.  Families come in all shapes and sizes and choices and your judgment that my brother should be saying Kaddish instead of me (or in addition)... well, maybe it's not something I haven't thought of before.  Maybe that's one more hurt that I'm feeling, at the same time as I'm saying Kaddish for my father.  
• What if I have a brother who IS saying Kaddish?  Am I not my father's child too?  Why should Kaddish be limited to only one of my father's children because he is male?
• And finally, why is MY family situation YOUR business?  I came to you to find an opportunity to say Kaddish with a minyan.  Please save your judgments for a more opportune time (or never). 

Try This:  Just don't ask.  If curiosity overwhelms you, perhaps ask "Do you have any company in saying Kaddish for your father?"  But read the knee-jerk responses above before deciding whether satisfying your curiosity is the best choice for the moment. 

Charged Comment: "Wow, look at all the beautiful women in Shul today!"

• This is another backhanded compliment.  Because women are not halachically obligated in daily communal prayer, those who do attend often do so because they are saying Kaddish.  As such, your comment is tantamount to "Look how many beautiful grieving women we have in shul today!"  I'm sure this is hardly what you mean to say, as I'd like to believe that you would never want to call attention to our pain.  Yes, there is some beauty in the camaraderie that forms when people come together to achieve a certain goal, but the response to your comment, at least in my head, reads: "yes, I'm here today, because I'm saying Kaddish.  I wish I didn't have to be here for this reason, and I wish even more that you didn't feel the need to remind me that I'm here in Shul today because my father is not." 

Try This: NOTHING.  

• Don't say anything.  It's not your place to comment.  Move on. At the very least, comment on the camaraderie that you see or offer to be a listening ear.  Perhaps try "It's good to see you today, how is saying Kaddish going?" or even better... if you happen to be an officer of a Shul, ask how the Shul can make saying Kaddish easier for women in the future.  Now THAT would be a help, more than a hindrance!

Charged Comment: "How much time do you have left (to say Kaddish)?"

• Ouch.  This one really hurt in ways I didn't see coming.  First of all, it required me to calculate how long it has been since my father passed away and how much time remained of my marathon year of Kaddish.  As exhausting as it is and has been, contemplating the end of the year (or the eleven months) cut like a knife, as it forced my feelings of loss and fear of the end of this structured mourning period into sharp, unwanted focus.  
• Though it seems like a long time, now that I'm past the halfway point of the year, every additional day that I get to go to Shul and recite Kaddish for my father feels like a gift... a last lingering connection with my father.  I dread the day that will mark the end of this period of intense and daily remembering and begin a chapter of a new normal where my first thought on waking up is something other than "Daddy" and the idea that there is still something concrete that I can do with my feet/body/words/&soul to honor him. 
• Of course there are times when I, myself, look forward to lazy Sundays and sleeping in perhaps a little later some days of the week.  Don't think for a moment that it's not hard some days and weeks.  I have not yet figured out (at the 7-month point) what role prayer/minyan/shul will play in my life after the end of this year.  It's hard to wrap my mind around the idea of "THE END" juxtaposed with the challenges I'm currently facing.  Please know that I don't mean to jump down your throat with my response to your innocent question - these thoughts are just something I need to express somehow, some way, and this blog has become my forum for doing so.  I hope I will not be quite so stark in person!

Try This: "How long has it been?" 

• This may not seem substantively different than the first comment, but it allows me to stay in the moment and focus on what I have done until now, rather than on the dwindling time I have left to continue to do it.

If you have caught yourself using any of these charged comments in the past, don't waste time feeling bad.  Just try to choose your words more carefully going forward.  I appreciate your all of efforts to help, especially when your intentions are good and the words just don't come out as you or I would have wished.   Thank you many times over for all of your love and support in this difficult time. 

Men: Please Don’t Sit in the Women’s Section!

This is a pubic service announcement for all men who choose to sit in the

women’s section out of convenience, comfort, curiosity, or just sheer ignorance.  

You may never have thought about it before and your sitting in the women’s

section may be completely accidental on one particular day - but it matters.  

Or you may be someone who likes to spread out, and you see a whole empty (for now)

section where you won’t have to share a row with another man.  But the fact that

so many men seem to make this choice on a regular basis truly baffles me.  

In many Orthodox synagogues, men have 75-90% of the space at their disposal

on a weekday, so I wonder why some decide to also claim the tiny corner reserved

for us women.  

To all of you, I ask this question:

Have you (man) ever stopped to consider how your choice could affect the

women for whom that section is designated?

Please take a moment and try to imagine how you might feel if, already

running late for Mourner’s Kaddish, you arrive at shul and need to

displace one (or several) men from the women’s section in order to join the service.  

Outcome:

• Those few moments of movement may prevent you from reciting the Kaddish!  
• The discomfort of the encounter itself may last a few moments into

your prayer, affecting your mood and your ability to focus on the words and your intention.

• Now imagine if that woman was your own mother or sister or wife or daughter...

And when this happens again and again, it takes a toll.  

After 4 months of Kaddish, there are probably about an equal number of times

that my simple presence has displaced men from the women’s section as not.  

I’ve tried to be polite and non-judgemental about it, asking “Is this the Women’s

Section?” when I arrive, instead of “Can you (man) please move from this section

designated for me (woman) so I can stand here to say Kaddish for my father.”   

But after five encounters in the last two days, I’m tired of being subtle.  From now on,

I plan to ask the men WHY they choose to sit in the women’s section.

Here’s a tip:

If you can’t answer that question with something other than “Oops” (really?!) or “I was

going to move when you got here” (not helpful) -- or anything that will make me feel better

about displacing you by my simple presence and potentially missing the Mourner’s

Kaddish that I came to recite… well, please, please, PLEASE… just DON’T sit in the

women’s section!

Final note to all the men out there who want to help:

Please spread the word among members of your gender and help reserve the

women’s section for women.  We may not always manage to arrive at the beginning

of the service, but it’s doubly hard to run late and then negotiate for a place

to stand.  Your help with keeping the women’s section clear of men will be

invaluable to all women who ever enter a synagogue to pray.