by Laura Weisskopf Bleill
It was a sunny but crisp fall afternoon Sunday — the kind of day you wish you could bottle up and clone during the long winter ahead.
There we were, my family and I, gathered in a park-like setting all together – a rarity these days. It was a fitting day to honor a beautiful, remarkable woman.
Over the weekend we observed the graveside ceremony to “unveil” my grandmother’s headstone and formally dedicate it — another custom that is part of the Jewish burial traditions. It typically occurs within the first year following a death.
The brief ceremony includes a literal “unveiling,” as the marker is covered by a cloth or shroud. The ceremony begins with the actual uncovering of the headstone by one of the close family members, most often a child or sibling. It includes the recitation of psalms; family members are invited to speak, and the kaddish (memorial prayer) is chanted.
It has been six months since my grandmother died. By some measures time has stood still; I still feel her presence with me.
By other measures it feels like an eternity. We have observed many milestones in that time – our first Mother’s Day without her. Her birthday. The Jewish High Holidays.
And then there were just the random family gatherings where her absence was felt just by counting — and re-counting — the number of chairs we needed at a meal.
I have gone through most of the “standard” stages of grief — denial, anger, sadness. But I also have endured another one — guilt and self-flagellation.
If I’m honest with myself, I know that I have repressed a lot of my grief. For one thing, I felt like a spoiled brat. How lucky was I to have had such a wonderful role model and loving, caring, engaged grandmother in my life – for so long?
So the unveiling served another symbolic purpose, one I hope that I’ll remember for awhile. I know that it’s time for me to stop hiding my grief, for my own sanity — and to be a good role model for my own children. I also know it’s time for me to stop feeling guilty for that grief.
Another Jewish custom is to leave a marker when one visits a grave. Typically it is a rock or a stone, but we leave pennies — a family tradition since my grandfather passed away. Before we left her graveside, I placed four pennies by her name, one for each member of our family.
Seeing those pennies together was reminder of how much she loved all of us — my daughters, my husband, myself. As I turned away, my heart felt lighter than it has in months.
Laura Weisskopf Bleill, a co-founder of chambanamoms.com, is feeling guilty for being such a Debbie Downer. She writes “Being a Jew in C-U,” a column about being a Jewish suburban girl in a cornfield, on Thursdays. You can reach her at laura@chambanamoms.com.