Inconvenient (On My Father's 4th Yortzeit)

 Dear Dad,

As your 4th Yortzeit approaches tonight, the word that comes to mind is inconvenient.  Nothing about your passing has been convenient or comfortable for me - that I'll acknowledge - but let's review for a moment what these last few years have been.  That first year, your death thrust me into a year of aveilut and a whirlwind of Kaddish that interrupted nearly every facet of life (including all my dates with Saleh).  Your second Yortzeit fell on my birthday/Maggie's naming party and the third was in the middle of a global pandemic.  And this year... I'm waiting to go into labor any time now - I don't know if I'll be in shul tonight to say Kaddish or at the hospital meeting your new grandchild.  Inconvenient is an understatement!  I've made all the plans within my power... and now the decisions are up to Baby and Hashem - as they always were.  I guess one important lesson from these last 4 years is about how many things are outside of my control, whether I like it or not! 

On the other hand, the last few years have also been filled with blessings - Meeting Saleh, Marc's and my weddings, the birth of your 2 (almost 3 grandchildren) and more.  Would that you could have been here for all of them... For example - I wish you could have heard me speak at Seudah Shlishit at the end of that first year... I could have chosen any topic - it didn't need to be about missing you!  And on your second Yortzeit, wouldn't you have rather held Maggie in your arms than had her named for you?  And the pandemic... well - I can't really lay that one at your feet, but I imagine that you and Uncle Paul could have figured something out if you'd put your heads together... maybe you're working together on a solution even now so that we can celebrate your new grandchildren properly - safely surrounded by loving family and friends!

Bottom line is... I'm still missing you - especially now that I'm on the verge of (finally) becoming a parent myself.  I can't believe it's been 4 years... and what years they have been...!  I'm not mad anymore (at least not right now) and I recognize that missing you won't really go away, but gosh it's inconvenient.  

Thinking of you with love...

All of us 

In loving memory of Maury Joseph Fechter - Mordechai Yosef ben Shmuel (24th Av)

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!

Yortzeit Reflections: Sensitivity, Community & Chutzpah

Remarks shared at Congregation Ohab Zedek during Seudah Shlishit on August 4, 2018, on the occasion of my father's first Yortzeit - Mordechai Yosef ben Shmuel.  May his neshama have an Aliyah. 

There’s a saying that “the days pass slowly but the years fly.” I cannot believe I’m standing here today on my father’s Yortzeit, marking a whole year without him. It’s been a whirlwind year, with so many milestone moments, both related to remembering my father and adjusting to the new normal, as well as preparing to step into another new chapter in my future. I’d like to take a few moments now to reflect on what I have learned through this year of saying kaddish in shul regularly….

My father was one of the kindest, gentlest people you could ever meet. He was a quiet man, unassuming, sensitive soul, who loved to help people heal, both personally and professionally - he was a dental craftsman, skilled, caring and devoted to his art… I learned recently that he even talked about dentistry in his sleep. And my choice to say Kaddish this year, which started as a final gift that I could give him, actually turned into a gift for myself as well.

People have said some interesting things this year… well, people say interesting things all the time… and most are very well-meaning. One of the things I’ve heard a lot lately is how much extra time I’ll have on my hands once I don’t have to rush off to shul anymore. It’s true, I won’t miss springing out of bed at the sound of my alarm so I won’t be late for Shacharit - picture the cartoon Goofy landing on a pincushion - arms and legs taught and suspended inches above the mattress. I won’t miss barrelling, (yes barreling.. there’s simply no other word for it) down 95th street like an offensive linebacker, frightening dogs and people out of my way as I raced down slippery marble stairs just in time for Kaddish (I’m so grateful that there are now rugs to absorb the water and make that descent just a little less treacherous). I won’t miss interrupting dates and dinners to catch the last minyan - its hard to forget the night we left my future in-laws waiting in the restaurant between dinner and dessert while we headed down the street for Maariv after Tuesday night learning!

But there are plenty of things I will miss - and plenty of unexpected things I gained - from a year of saying Kaddish every day in all sorts of familiar and unfamiliar minyanim: and of these, the main categories are Chutzpah, sensitivity and community.

First of all, I have to say that my choice to say Kaddish was not a political statement of any kind, and certainly not an attempt to prove a point about women in Orthodox shuls, although I learned a lot about this topic too. It was not even a commitment to say Kaddish “all year,” but a choice I made (and continue to make) one day at a time. But as a woman choosing to say Kaddish, I surprised myself with a chutzpah I didn’t know I had, barging into Kollels and Chabad houses and collecting men for minyan during conferences and house parties. I advocated for myself with Rabbis and gabbaim, mourners and other congregants with the goal of ensuring a place to stand during the service and a pace for Kaddish that was reasonable enough to follow. Of course, what I felt to be “barging in” was in reality more of a gentle and respectful "acquaintance making" in my father's style, but it still felt strange on many occasions to wait for a mechitza to be set up or to wonder with trepidation throughout the entire service to find out whether Kaddish would be recited at the end. I developed a habit of doing research, calling ahead and arriving early any time I was too far from my “comfort minyanim” - OZ is one of these- where I knew what to expect. I even printed up “Kaddish cards”- business cards that could be easily passed through the mechitza to the minyan leadership, which included my father’s name and yortzeit, along with my blog address, for easy reference. These proved to come in very handy during the year, and my only regret is in misprinting the Hebrew month in which I printed them (after shloshim) instead of the actual Hebrew date of my father’s yortzeit - 24th of Av!

Chutzpa.

I also watched myself seek out other male mourners and advocate for my needs by asking the men to speak louder, stand near the mechitza, or adjust their pace. On one occasion I even asked certain gentlemen why they felt it necessary to wander through the women’s section during davening…. I’m not sure everyone was pleased with my requests all the time, and while at times I was quite embarrassed by my “big mouth,” I did feel a certain sense of satisfaction because of the way the community rallied to make small but powerful changes that made my Kaddish experience increasingly comfortable, and therefore more meaningful.

Sensitivity is the second lesson, and as I’ve already alluded, there are so many things that one notices when one finds oneself in the same place for an extended period of time. Firstly, I noticed how arranging my work schedule around minyan time allowed me an element of relief in knowing that my davening would happen at a specified time that day. While I certainly disliked the initial sprint to get there, once I was in shul, I had the rest of the time to simply be… to be present, to think, to reflect, to fume, to strategize and to feel. I noticed some minor things such as how the shadows fell differently on my siddur depending on whether the mechitza was two inches to the right or left of usual, and how other seemingly small things, like word choice, had a major impact on how welcome I felt in a certain minyan. I learned that idle conversation next to the mechitza adversely impacts the quality of my davening, while a single “amen” to my Kaddish lifts my spirits for the rest of the day. I’ve learned that cameraderie in the recitation of Kaddish offers a band-aid to my suffering soul, while company in shul by women NOT saying Kaddish offers a comfort beyond the power of words, as well as a sense of normalcy in a period of upheaval and stress.

I learned to be sensitive to my family’s reactions to our shared tragedy and to how other people reacted to my outward display of grief. I learned to be sensitive to my wonderful fiance and his likes and dislikes, and to recognize his beautiful acts of generosity and patience through a tumultuous year of dating riddled with kaddish. And I learned to be sensitive to myself - to my own feelings, wants and needs and to be more direct and blunt than I have ever had cause to be in the past - and that advocating for myself, with a sensitivity to where the other parties are coming from, was an important step not only for me, but for any women and any mourners who will follow me (but not until 120 on all sides). I also recognize now, from the other end, that a community as a whole cannot be expected to feel the acute mourning experience of the individuals reciting kaddish on a perpetual basis. That said, I have sincerely appreciated the way my comments and requests have been received with empathy and sensitivity in most circumstances. I recognize that it was much easier for a woman to recite Kaddish in 2018 than it has been in years past, but we as a community still have a way to go. Even so, I’ve never been more grateful for Jewish community and I hope that my reflections here and in my blog will serve to help women feel even more comfortable, both here at OZ and in all the communities where we travel.

Mourning is a funny thing - as an Avel, one is supposed to separate onself from the community in celebrations, concerts and other happy gatherings. On the other hand, saying Kaddish requires one to step into the public eye to daven daily with a minyan. The overtures of this community, the connections I made this year, and the relationships formed will always hold a special place in my healing heart, including people in this room who don't even realize the impact they have made by their simple presence in shul. I appreciate every person in every city who turned to face me while I recited Kaddish, who offered a verbal response, or who simply stood still and quiet during the recitation. I am forever grateful to the men who either recited their Kaddish loudly or stood near the mechitza so I could hear them to recite Kaddish together. I am especially grateful to those Chazzanim who paused to breathe at the periods during Aleinu so that I could finish the last paragraph before launching into Kaddish at the end of the service. There are no words to express how I felt as certain members of this community took me under their wing, some even offering to interview the guy I was then dating to make sure he was going to treat me right sincemy father could not do so.

During this year I found myself in dozens of shuls in at least half a dozen states which showed me the breadth and depth of our greater Jewish community. With countless hours in places I’d never otherwise have ventured into, I learned about sensitivity and kindness in the most unexpected ways. Men I never met volunteered to recite kaddish along with me so that I did not need to recite it alone. Some communities had clear policies on women and kaddish and encouraged me to recite it ‘loud and proud’ (as we say in school). Men set up movable mechitzot upon my arrival in places unaccustomed to having women present. Rabbis reflected on the wording of annoucements and updated policies based on items I brought to their attention. And I met and shared memories with dozens of women who kept me company during their rotation of yortzeits and aveilut, finding myself surrounded and enfolded by a club no one wants to join that is built upon the poignancy of shared pain and effort of memory. I thank all the women who have come before me to pave the way and those who have kept me company through shared loss and commitment and every person, man and woman, who supported, encouraged, assisted and inspired me.

I’ve had countless hours to reflect on the whole experience, and have a blog dedicated to my thoughts on various topics related to Jewish mourning and women in shul in general. I welcome your feedback and encourage you to share the posts widely if they resonate with you. Regular synagogue attendance is no small feat - I admire anyone who manages to do so, since it required me to reorganize my entire schedule to achieve - but the benefits of community, connection, consistency, relationships, schedule, routine, etc. - are many.

My father was a man of few words, and I had a lot of time this year to reflect on their power. More than anything else, I’ve learned that words can hurt and words can heal and sometimes there are no words and sometimes words have no meaning and sometimes it’s important to say the words regardless - because the saying of them is one positive thing you can do to recognize the memory of a loved one, no matter what it takes to make it happen, because eventually, their meaning will penetrate and because the time it takes to say them is valuable time for reflection about loss and life and love.

In memory of my father, Dr. Maury Fechter - Mordechai Yosef ben Shmuel, I hope that these words will in some small way help to inspire chutzpah, encourage sensitivity and build community in the minds and hearts of all who hear them.

Holidays - Prepare To Be Unprepared (The First Chanukah Without Dad)

Everyone says that moments of remembering can hit at the most unexpected times. I am finding this to be very true.

In hindsight, I guess that I should have expected the wave of sadness that hit me in the middle of lighting Chanukah candles this first year. I called home like I always do, with the intention of keeping my mom company as we lit the candles together across the distance. Intellectually I knew the facts on the ground, but I didn’t stop to think about the implications for this favorite tradition. In the middle of singing the blessings, though, I remembered that singing all six verses of “Maoz Tzur” was a special ritual my dad and I shared every year. My voice broke. It was hard to continue. Realizing that I would not hear his voice this year caught me by surprise - even though I well knew the reality. It was somewhat comforting to sing his own improvised tune to “Hanerot Halalu,” but truth be told, it is nearly impossible to sing and cry at the same time.

Holidays present an extra challenge for our grief, especially during the first year. Just as we need to get accustomed to the new reality of the absence of our loved one during daily routines, we need to find a new normal for holiday celebrations. The challenge is that these “special occasions” are more memorable for the traditions they invoke and more poignant for their lack of frequency.  This means we have less opportunity to practice adjusting to the change.

I’d like to offer suggestions for how to prepare for the moments that catch us off guard… but I can’t. At least not after only 4 months in this new reality.

The best I can do is take the moments as they come and remember that the tears are a reflection of my love for my father. I guess like finding new love, remembering also happens when we least expect. Those we love impact our lives in more ways than we can count; their presence in our lives constitutes such a powerful part of who we are that moments large and small will trigger emotions both at times we can anticipate and at times we can’t.


If I could offer any advice to myself and others in the future, it would be this:

Holidays can be hard. Especially at first.

Treasure and savor the memories, but don’t miss out on making new ones.
Take pictures and enjoy the company of those around you.

And carry tissues… because there really is no way to prepare to be unprepared.

Reflections upon the Completion of the Shloshim for my Father

Shared on 9/17/17 at Congregation Ohab Zedek in Manhattan at Sunday morning Shiur & Shmear. Sponsored on the occasion of my father's shloshim.

Most of you at OZ didn’t know my father, so I want to say a few words about who he was and what I have learned about him and about myself in the time since he passed away suddenly a month ago.

My father visited OZ with me once while I served as Youth Director.  I walked with him to the lobby in front of the main shul, where Meyer Muschel took him under his wing and whisked him inside, introducing him around as “Amy’s Father.”  It meant so much to me to see the way he was welcomed by so many of you and honored with an aliyah.  I’m glad he got to hear a little bit about my work with the children from some of the parents and members of the shul.

Four weeks ago, we were all in shock that first day after hearing the news.  My cousin Sarah drew a comparison to our confusion and despair, saying it’s like “seeing the back of the needlepoint.”  She said that the front of the needlepoint shows the trajectory of our experiences in this world, giving us a full picture that explains why things happen in the way that they do… but all we get to see is the back of the needlepoint with all the knots, mistakes, wrong turns and loose ends in the stitching of our lives.  I won’t ever know why my father had to go so soon after we celebrated his 72nd birthday (4 times chai), but during the shiva and hearing other people’s stories about my father, I think I have gained at least a partial glimpse of the picture on my father’s needlepoint.

My father was the kindest, gentlest, most patient person I ever knew.   But it's not just me… More than 80 people attended his grave side funeral, many of whom drove over an hour to stand in the hot sun.  Dozens more paid Shiva calls in person or on the phone, and not one could think of anything negative about my father - that's the main thing everyone said.  What a tribute.  My mother and brother and I were overwhelmed.

My father was not only a dentist, but a master craftsman, who even talked about conducting dental procedures in his sleep.  For my father, dentistry was not only a profession, but a calling - he used his skill to take away pain and he was generous in sharing it.  Friends recalled how my father would drive them down to his office on a Saturday night after shabbos or pick up an older shul member to help him get to his appointment (in the middle of the day!).  I also learned that my father saw residents from the neighborhood near his office in Northwest Baltimore for free when they could not afford the care.  

But more than his kindness, my father was a dental therapist - if such a term exists.  He understood the psychology of fear and how it could play out in the dental chair.  He offered guidance to parents about preparing their children for a filling and I personally remember how patiently he waited out my little nervous tantrums when work needed to be done.  

My father was always just there.  He made a point of being present.  Quiet and unassuming, he never wanted to make waves.  But he consistently showed up.  He went to shul each week, serving as regular gabbai and on the shul board.  He didn’t walk very fast, but plodded along steadily, despite painful knee problems in his later months.  Neighbors said they could set their clock by his return from shul and that he knew the names of all their children and where they went to school.  He would wave and smile in the mornings and ask about their wellbeing.  Rabbi Motzen of Ner Tamid in Baltimore recalled the day that my father quietly handed him a sharp knife, because he had noticed that the rabbi was having trouble slicing the challah for seuda shlishit and didn't want him to struggle anymore.   

Presence.  I’m so glad that the last few years I had been making a point of going home regularly to spend quality time with my parents and join them on vacations.  I have a picture of an omlette my dad made me one morning and several of him watering his garden.  I am finding these pictures of everyday events to be much more meaningful than those posed on special occasions.  I even have a photo of him putting up the mezuzah as the last thing he did before we left the new Florida condo the week before he passed away.  I will treasure my memories of my father teaching me to dive under waves in the ocean and to fix a running toilet so I could be self sufficient in my New York apartment.  I’ll miss the care and attention he lavished on clothes and laundry (he always wanted to preserve and take care of things nearly as much as he wanted to help people) - I wish I could ask him what to do with my heavy terry cloth robe…

During the last few weeks, I’ve also learned what it means to be present in a community.  It’s not quite as hard as I once thought to get to shul on time in the morning… and having to get up to go to shul to say kaddish also means having to get up to go to shul for kaddish.  Being present every day means seeing faces grow more familiar (even through a mechitza), developing friendships based on consistent social capital and gaining an understanding of the rhythms, the customs and the needs of the community on a deeper level than shabbat attendance and email bulletins.  

I have plenty more to learn, and I know this year will be a revelation on many levels, but I hope that these lessons will stay with me - to be present and to try to take away pain.  I would ask that if we can all take on one goal in my father’s memory that it be one of these.  Number one: to please make an effort to be present wherever you are - show up to spend time with loved ones and really engage during the time you are together and Number two: to try to take away pain by doing something that will make someone else’s life a little easier.  

As Rosh Hashana approaches, it will be a comfort to me and my family to know that there is some extra goodness spreading around in this world that no longer has my father in it.  

On Friday morning, Allen Katz spoke about yesterday morning’s Torah Reading, where Hashem told Moshe that his days were coming to an end, but his teachings would remain with the people forever.  I have learned so much from the lessons my father taught me and from observing the person that he was, and now, with these glimpses of the picture on the face of his needlepoint, I have never been more proud to be my father's daughter.

Goals of this Blog

I am writing this blog to serve 3 purposes:

1. Help me process the multitude of emotions and experiences of the shiva week, the shloshim and beyond.
2. Share some of the unexpected parts of mourning so others in this position can prepare (where there is warning*) or find comaraderie after the fact in company with others who may have encountered similar experiences.
3. Assist clergy and well wishers in their attempts to comfort the bereaved and guide them through the process.

I am not a rabbi or any type of halachic authority, but an educator who is trained to reflect.  These writings are in no way binding, and may not represent all approaches to and experiences in navigating grief.  In fact, there will likely be those who disagree with me or can offer additional suggestions and reflections.  For this reason, I am leaving the comments section open so that together as a community, we can broaden the scope of this blog to include a majority of human experience.

One important request: Please be respectful in posting your comments and be sure to frame your tips in the most positive phrasing possible.  I reserve the right to delete any unkind comments and plan to update the original posts occasionally to include additional insights and reflections from our combined experience.

With hope and prayer that these writings will serve as a source of comfort and aid to others, I write in the memory of my beloved father, Maury Fechter (Mordechai Yosef ben Shmuel), a kind, humble and generous soul who dedicated his personal and professional life to alleviating pain wherever possible.  May his neshama have an aliyah and may we continue to bring nachas to his memory.

Please look for these clues to assist in navigating to relevant posts. The search feature will also be enabled to identify terms such as ("clergy," "friend," "first days," "tribute" to my father, "reflections," "kaddish," "mourner," etc.):

* tips relating to the first days of mourning, relates to funeral and other surprises.

^ advice for clergy in assisting mourners through their process - non-halachic reminders that would be a great help

~ what friends can do (read also the * so you can advise the mourner)