My father recently passed away. As many have experienced, the loss of a loved one brings forth a torrent of emotions that words often struggle to capture. In the days following my father’s passing, many reached out to offer comfort and nichum aveilim. Among these gestures, three individuals shared words that resonated with me deeply. I hope that by sharing these experiences, others navigating a similar path might find some solace.
The first words of comfort came from my mother-in-law, who had also lost her mother to cancer. During her final days, her mother would often say, “I don’t want you to remember me this way.” Despite this wish, the memories of her mother’s suffering were so strong that, initially, they overshadowed the happier memories. My mother-in-law felt a profound sadness, believing she had failed to honor her mother’s request. Yet, as time passed, the painful memories began to soften, making space for the joyful and vibrant ones to take their rightful place in her heart. In sharing this with me, she gently reminded me that while our most recent memories may be clouded by illness and suffering, time has a way of restoring the fuller picture – the memories that truly capture the vibrancy of our loved ones’ lives.
The second source of comfort came during shiva. A visitor shared the story of a 93-year-old man who walked into a lawyer’s office, seeking help with some traffic tickets. Surprised, the lawyer asked, “Are you still driving at this age?” The elderly man smiled sheepishly and admitted that he was actually paying off the tickets for his “little brother,” now in his 80s. The visitor imagined their mother, decades earlier, saying, “Please take care of your little brother.” And here they were, still honoring that request long after she had passed. Though in his 80s, he was still the little brother. I recalled sitting with my father in his final days, with tears in my eyes, thinking that this might be the last time I would fulfill the mitzvah of kibud av. The story’s message was clear: our ability to honor our parents and fulfill their wishes doesn’t end with their death.
The third source of comfort came from a dear childhood friend who had lost both his father and brother. He shared something simple yet profound: “I’m no stranger to loss. It might sound strange, but when people die, the relationship doesn’t end; it just takes on a new form.” This insight helped me understand that while our loved ones’ physical presence may no longer be with us, our connection with them persists in ways we might not immediately recognize. The relationship evolves, moving from the physical into the realms of memory, legacy, and ongoing influence. They remain with us, their presence felt in our daily lives.
These words of comfort have stayed with me as I process my own grief. And yet, I recognize that losing a loved one is an experience only truly understood once lived. It is like love itself; no amount of reading or conversation can fully convey what it feels like until you have felt it in your own heart.
Most losses in life can be replaced. A car can be swapped for a new one; a misplaced pencil can be found or bought again. These losses, while inconvenient, lack the permanence that comes with losing a loved one. This kind of loss introduces us to a stark reality – a permanent absence that cannot be undone or replaced. It is a loss that changes us, leaving an indelible mark on our hearts.
And yet, while this loss is permanent, the relationship continues, though in a transformed way. We carry forward the wishes, values, and memories of those we have lost. We honor them through our actions and decisions, fulfilling their hopes long after they are gone. With time, the sharpness of recent memories softens, and the joy and warmth of happier times rise to the forefront of our minds.
For those who have experienced the loss of a loved one, I hope these reflections offer some comfort. Grief is a journey that reshapes our lives, but it also allows us to hold onto the essence of those we have lost. The relationship does not end; it evolves. And in that evolution, we find new ways to remember, honor, and cherish.
My father often said, “Time does not reduce the pain. It gives us the tools to learn to live with it.” As I move forward, I carry his words with me. The ache of his absence remains, but each passing day teaches me how to coexist with it. In this way, time becomes both a teacher and a healer, guiding us as we continue to honor our loved ones.
