Rabbi Janet Marder
Shavuot 5770
May 19, 2010

On April 20 an oil drilling rig in the Gulf of Mexico exploded in fire, killing eleven workers in the blast. Despite intensive efforts to stop the leak, four weeks later oil still spews into the Gulf -- hundreds of thousands of gallons each day -- and the ugly stain continues to spread in the water.

This is the great tragedy of 2010: a catastrophic wound to Mother Earth; a wound that will not heal; a dark and gushing flow that will not stop, but spreads out everywhere. And we are left with anger and helplessness; pervasive fear and worry that pollute our sunniest days here in California.

Some tragedies, more personal ones, are like that explosion in the Gulf: they blow up all of a sudden and cause massive disruption to our lives. Other tragedies are quieter. They come on slowly; they drag on painfully; but the changes they bring to us are just as devastating. Every story of loss and death is different. Today, at Yizkor, we honor all of them.

“As my husband of 43 years approached the end of his life,” wrote Jane Brody, “ …the anguish within me welled like a dam ready to burst...” The New York Times health columnist revealed her own story of loss and death to her readers just two months ago, on March 15. “When I wrote ‘Jane Brody’s Guide to the Great Beyond,’ she said in her column, “I had no idea that I’d be putting its precepts into practice in my immediate family within a year of publication. But as I said in the book, ‘You never know.’ You never know when your time will be up, and so it is best to prepare for the end sooner rather than later.

“On Feb. 2, we learned that my husband.... had Stage 4 lung cancer. There was no asking ‘Why me?’ Richard knew very well why. He’d been a pack-a-day smoker for 50 years…. After a few weeks of encroaching weakness and coughing, a PET scan showed that cancer was ravaging his body, taking up residence in both lungs, ….in his spine, his adrenal glands and his brain. It was inoperable and incurable. He was looking at weeks or months of remaining life, maybe a year at most.”

Richard’s decline was rapid and relentless. As his son Eric wrote, “In January, my dad was picking up my kids from school, and just two months later he could neither move nor respond to us.” On March 18 Richard died, just six weeks after his diagnosis.

Afterwards, Jane Brody wrote: “When we marry ‘till death do us part, do we really expect to be parted by death? ...After the children have moved away and have children of their own, a spouse’s death leaves an emptiness that is hard to fill. There’s no one in the house with whom to share the events of the day, discuss the broken pipes and rotten politics, relish the antics and achievements of the grandchildren.

“I do realize that my life is very rich. I have many interests, a wonderful, caring family and a large network of dear friends to whom I can turn for emotional support, advice and companionship.

“It is not just that I will miss my husband’s company, his acerbic wit, and his astute commentary on movies, concerts and plays. There are also practical issues that serve as daily reminders of his absence. Who will open the jar that defies my efforts, close a stuck window, hold the ladder while I change a light bulb, split wood for the fireplace, take the wheel when I’m too sleepy to drive?

“I’m not good at asking others for help or hiring people to do menial jobs, and I suspect I may be too old to change my ways.

“I long joked that should my husband die before me, my memory of the movies and plays I’ve seen and books I’ve read would die with him. I suppose I’m now destined to see and read them all over again.

“But aside from the pain of personal loss, I feel intense pain for what he lost, especially the blossoming of our four grandsons.

“…. Richard died…. just eight days before a concert he had carefully planned – and had expected to attend – to celebrate his nearly four decades as a lyricist for the musical theater. He named it, appropriately, after [the title of] one of his songs: ‘Nice While It Lasted.’

“I had desperately wanted him to be at the event, and to remain my life partner for years to come. If at any future time I might be inclined to say I miss neither his kisses nor his touch, to quote from another of his poignant songs, I should be reminded of its title – ‘The Lady Lies’.”

Jane Brody’s column about what it felt like to be without her beloved sparked an overwhelming response from readers. Hundreds of them wrote in to offer condolences and share their own experiences of loss. “This column is so true,” wrote one. “It’s one thing looking in from the outside and feeling empathy for the person who lost a spouse. But when you’re the one who has lost the most important person in your life – it’s something I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy.”

“After my significant other passed,” wrote one man, “I frequently found myself thinking of [a] lyric from a Joni Mitchell song: ‘The bed’s too big. The frying pan’s too wide’.”

“I lost my father when I was 30,” wrote another, “and then dove into depression…I have trouble coping with the world without him.”

And one woman wrote: “My husband of 40 years died 5 years ago. I learned something: that grief is a singular experience and that no one can really help you. I don’t mean that in a harsh way. I just learned that there were never any words that could end my ache.

“I also realized that I never truly understood what others were feeling when they lost a spouse – including my own dear mother. The loss was so profound…. emotions and feelings and yearnings covered me like a cloak.

“I’d wake up in the morning and for a nanosecond I’d want to tell him something – but…. then it would come to me: he wasn’t there to listen.

“We loved each other and we liked each other…. We were good for one another – and we had fun. We tolerated each other’s flaws and learned to love them.

“I waited too long to get help – my grief turned into depression. I saw a professional after 4 years of drifting. I’d tell anyone not to wait that long. I could do the ordinary functions – paying the bills, going to the grocery store – but the cat and me on the couch watching Turner Classic Movies was the numbing norm.

“…. I do not give advice on handling grief – except, Jane, be good to yourself, be patient with yourself – you are on a new path in life…. I received many condolence cards when my husband died, but only one do I remember. It was from a woman friend who had lost her husband to cancer. She wrote to me: ‘I am here for you’.”

And one man wrote: “A very wise psychotherapist told me soon after my partner died, ‘Don’t let anyone tell you “time heals all wounds.” It doesn’t. You have to create new memories.’ He was right…”

At Yizkor, all our stories of loss are honored. Together we mourn: those who have lost beloved parents and grandparents; husbands and wives; children and grandchildren; aunts, uncles and cousins; brothers and sisters; friends we cherished and depended on. Each loss brings its own distinctive ache; all leave us missing someone who is irreplaceable.

But on Shavuot we share especially a story that speaks of the devastating loss of a spouse. The Book of Ruth has been called “The Story of Two Widows and Their Go’el” (their Redeemer) – but it is not just about Ruth and Naomi redeemed by the generous Boaz. Boaz, too, is redeemed from solitude and loneliness when Ruth and Naomi come into his life.

The book our Sages give us to read on Shavuot is hope crystallized in words. It recounts, in four simple chapters, the journey from famine to plenty, from emptiness to fulfillment, from loneliness to love, from death to life renewed. The arc traced in this story is direct and powerful; it begins with bereavement and ends with the birth of a baby. And so we read it on this festival of harvesting ripe grain, remembering the long, patient months of waiting while the seed lies in the dark earth; waiting until at last barren winter passes away and new growth sprouts up from the ground.

There is one engine that moves this story forward – one human quality that allows its characters to emerge from barren despair and return to life. Rabbi Ze'era declares in the Midrash [Ruth Rabbah 2:14] that the purpose of the Book of Ruth is to teach the importance of chesed, of kindness. Simple acts of kindness that ordinary people extend to one another – that is how Ruth and Naomi and Boaz are redeemed from grief; that is how they go forward into life.

“Yesterday marked a year since I lost my husband....” wrote a woman in response to Jane Brody’s story. “We were all each other needed for all the good years, and when he died, I had never really cultivated other friendships. But I must tell you that that has changed. Acquaintances in the oddest places – my water aerobics class, the coffee shop, and the local dog park – came to my rescue, easing my days with kindness.

“They called, hugged, invited me to join them in other activities. I know the lifeline they have provided has made a vast difference in how I have navigated this past year. Many of them are widows and know exactly what I have experienced. I don’t have to pretend with these wonderful people. I treasure each and every one of them. So take all the help that is offered, Jane!”

Your own story of loss touches you in private ways that no one else can feel. Maybe it was a sudden explosion of disaster in your life; or maybe it came on slowly, over long and difficult years of struggle. But here is what the story of Ruth reminds all of us who have loved and lost: you will not suffer forever. You will not drown in grief, its dark, polluting stain spreading out everywhere and all the time. You will not always feel this anger or numbness; this sadness, helplessness or fear.

Deep wounds can heal; new and loving memories can soothe the sharpest ache; people can be there for one another in ways both simple and profound.

If you are grieving or in pain, believe this:

Chesed – the healing touch of kindness -- surrounds you even now, whether or not you can feel it. And chesed will bring you back to life.