I thankfully have not had to navigate the death of a child, though when one of my sons was stabbed in another country several years ago, the thought of potentially losing him consumed me on my 12-hour flight and then two-hour car drive to the hospital.
All kinds of thoughts swirled in my head. “I wish I could trade places with my son.” “Please God don’t let him die.” “Why us, God? Why? Why? Why?” “Is there even a God?” I vacillated between extreme sadness and anger.
Sadly, friends and acquaintances of mine have suffered far more than a life-endangering stabbing. Far too many have lost children. Some to violence. Some to cancer. Others to suicide.
No matter the reason, it seems beyond overwhelming to digest it even as a bystander.
As my teenage daughter remarked several years ago when she saw me crying hard when a girl her age fell at a playground and died, “I can’t imagine how sad the parents are if you’re this sad and you’re not even a relative.”
I just responded, “I’m not sure I could get through it if I ever lost one of you.”
Of course, understandably, many parents don’t get through it.
Depression, a sense of hopelessness and even giving up in some circumstances is not uncommon when someone loses a child.
Recently a beautiful family I know lost their child to suicide.
It caused me to reflect and try to make sense of this chaotic world. And to figure out how and where any of us go from here.
I turned to my own ancient Jewish tradition. Over 3,000 years of Judean scholarship that has confronted the worst life can ever throw our way.
Jewish tradition warns against something called Theodicy, where we try to explain why a tragedy happens. For thousands of years, some Jewish sages have cautioned against rationalizing a tragic death, which has the capacity to cause deeper pain and actually hinder emotional healing.
None of us are God, so trying to pretend we are isn’t a good idea.
In fact, after Aaron loses his two sons, Nadav and Avihu, the Bible says:
וַיִּדֹּם אַהֲרֹן
And Aaron was silent.
That silence isn’t indifference.
It’s the silence of a person standing before a pain too large for explanation.
The great 13th century Jewish philosopher Ramban understands the phrase to mean that of course Aaron first cried aloud, but then he became silent. In other words, grief may include both crying and silence. Not explaining it. Just sitting with it.
We don’t owe anyone a theological explanation for loss and grief. Sometimes the most faithful response to tragedy is simply to sit with the loss and not try to explain or justify it.
What we can and should do, according to ancient wisdom, is to acknowledge the devastation. Nobody needs to be ok right away. And suggesting things will be ok isn’t a good idea. Anger, vulnerability and sadness ought to be validated.
Jewish tradition doesn’t stop there. In the only form of comfort possible, it teaches that the soul of each of us is eternal. Our bodies may be mortal, but our souls aren’t. It’s not to diminish the pain of the very real physical absence, but the spiritual essence and influence of the child endure within community, family and beyond.
When King David’s infant child dies, David says:
אֲנִי הֹלֵךְ אֵלָיו וְהוּא לֹא יָשׁוּב אֵלָי
I shall go to him, but he will never come back to me.
King David doesn’t deny the loss. Instead, he says the child will not come back into this life. But it also leaves room for continued bond, memory, and reunion in some mystery beyond ordinary life. King David knows he can still go to him, even after death.
Healing doesn’t mean the child “comes back.” It means the parent slowly learns how to live while still going toward the child in memory, love, soul and spirit.
While it’s not the same as losing a child, when I lost my own mother a year and a half ago, the pain was tremendous. Still is. Yet I’ve learned to see her show up in ways I couldn’t before imagine. When I emulate her generosity. When I do something I know makes her smile. I can feel her presence. Deeply and profoundly. I still talk to her when I’m stressed. I still go to her.
Judean tradition also asks us to focus heavily on legacy.
Instead of forever being consumed with the loss, Judaism asks us to eventually redirect our focus towards honoring the lost one by continuing their mission. By building strength. Connecting with others.
In a comment on Deuteronomy, Jewish sages taught:
מתים. מכאן שהחיים פודין את המתים.
“Atone for Your people Israel’ — these are the living; ‘whom You have redeemed’ — these are the dead. From here [we learn] that the living redeem the dead.
In other words, we actually help the soul of the departed when we actively work to help the living. We the living can perform acts in this world that bestow a spiritual benefit on those who have died.
The Jerusalem Talmud, citing Proverbs 21:21 states:
רֹדֵף צְדָקָה וָחָסֶד יִמְצָא חַיִּים צְדָקָה וְכָבוֹד.
One who pursues charity/righteousness and kindness will find life, righteousness, and honor.
This can come in many forms, but families have often created charities, scholarships, programs to help others, all in honor of and to carry on the legacy of the child. Even picking something that aligns with the child’s personality and soul.
Grief often turns memory into doing good in the world. While nothing can replace the child, the point is to let the love keep moving through the world. To make room alongside the grief, and carry the child forward through memory, love, justice, and acts of kindness.
With all of that, it’s easy for the rest of us to show up in the days and weeks immediately after a tragedy. But the ancient Talmud asks us to be their support long after.
Someone who experiences loss shouldn’t have to carry language, prayer, and presence alone. The answer to unbearable grief isn’t “be strong.” It’s do not be alone. Let others sit nearby even when they cannot fix anything.
Let’s not forget to be there for people long after the days and weeks of the loss. Their pain won’t be gone so neither should we.
In memory of the precious souls lost. We march on. May their memories be a blessing.