What Do You Say?
Mon., March 20, 09:55 AM
What should you do? What can you say? It is perhaps a comment on our society as a whole that people in general, and especially young people, don’t have a clue about the appropriate behavior when someone dies.
Maybe it’s easier if everyone in the community has the same background and knows everyone else. But we live in a wider and more diverse world than our grandparents did. A terrific instruction manual is a book called How to Be a Perfect Stranger, by Arthur J. Magida. It’s two volumes, subtitled “A Guide to Etiquette in Other People’s Religious Ceremonies.” If you work or go to school with people from an assortment of backgrounds, you’ll find it helpful for weddings and baby namings as well as funerals.
What I know best is Jewish, of course. Our custom is burial first – usually within a day – and mourning afterward. You may have seen an announcement in the obituaries, “…period of mourning will be observed at…” The location is the home of a family member. Sometimes it’s called shiva, the Hebrew word for seven, because it’s observed for seven days, during which the family is at home to callers and pretty much does nothing else. We don’t go to work, we don’t go shopping. Emergencies arise, of course; I remember my sister going to the dentist during shiva. I can look at all this with a different viewpoint, because it was a long time ago.
Just coincidentally, while I was thinking about this subject, I came across an article by Rabbi Aryeh Markman, called “15 Lessons from Shiva”. Although it is written for truly observant Jewish people, primarily aimed at the mourners, I found information that could apply to everyone. (Nothing you ever learn…)
For example, understand that people are grieving. It takes all the energy you’ve got. Tread lightly when you talk with them. Don’t phone them after nine in the evening. Don’t call about computer glitches or office machines. Don’t burden them with the static of everyday life. Incidentally, if your young children are moderately well behaved, it’s usually okay to bring them on a condolence call. (You might want to ask first.) I remember feeling a sense of “it will be all right” when I saw babies and pregnant women.
Notify people. Call one person at work who will let everyone else know; if you can, convey necessary details. At the very least, tell them who the funeral director is. When my dad died, my sister made two calls. The first was to his niece, who offered to phone everyone else on his side of the family. The second was to my mother’s sister, who called everyone on her side of the family. That’s a lot of people in a short time; the sanctuary was packed. As one aunt commented, “he would have been so pleased.”
When you speak to the mourner, don’t talk about yourself. No matter how much you may want to share your experiences, they’re not the same. (When we buried my mother, one old woman kept yammering about her mother’s funeral. I am capable of ignoring such things; however, my kids were upset.) At this time, no one wants to hear about you. If you were acquainted with the deceased, even slightly, now is the time to share pleasant memories. They are comforting. We put photo albums on the table because the pictures give you something to say.
You should not expect to be fed if you come to visit. On the other hand, if you know the family, you may want to offer your help – not a feast, but maybe to keep coffee and tea available. You might direct traffic, arrange chairs, pick up the inevitable clutter as people go in and out.
Do offer to make sure that the mourner(s) get their meals. One cousin, when she phoned me, reminded me, “don’t forget to eat.” It’s not on your mind. Several people brought us prepared dinners during our shiva.
People recover slowly, and the way two people recover is never quite the same. Your religion gives you guidelines, but sometimes they help in strange ways. Rabbi Markman reminds people to say Kaddish, the prayer we say in remembrance. But for a year after my dad died, I was carrying an anger so deep that I couldn’t say it. I couldn’t even read it in Hebrew. Every week I stood up in temple with the other mourners and read the transliteration. The comfort came from the knowledge that G0d would forgive me and that eventually I would feel better.
But we should all realize that, if you don’t really know what to say, less is better than more. People from the congregation, virtual strangers, walked up to me and simply said, “I’m sorry for your loss,” or “I’m sorry for your trouble.” In its way, that’s just as comforting as having someone recite the Hebrew prayers. And, y’know, it’s a lot better than the reprehensible “foot in mouth disorder.”
