Grief

After 9/11, I spoke to my campus about what we were feeling. I urged everyone to understand that people express grief differently; we could not assume that people without outward expressions weren’t as profoundly moved as those who wept and raged. I’m not sure I was successful. People conflated patriotism and grief and were suspicious of anyone who didn’t wear a flag pin.

One year into COVID, with an end, or at least relief in sight, I find myself grieving more intensely than I have throughout the year. My favorite Jewish holiday, Passover, starts in two weeks. It is a holiday that has always meant gathering family and friends to “tell our children” the timeless story of our liberation from Egypt. Even when I was working full time and had to cook for weeks to prepare for hosting 20 people, I looked forward to the Seder, or ritual meal, with joy.

Last year my family Seder was on Zoom. We shared news, took pleasure in my Aunt and Uncle’s awe of the technology that enabled them to see all of us from their own home, and said the blessings over a glass of wine. We were sad, but most of us believed that in a matter of months we would be celebrating together again.

This year, it may actually be true that we will be together again soon. But I have no interest in the holiday.  I will have a small, in person celebration with one of my daughters on the first night and virtually with my congregation on the second. But I feel grief, rather than joy. In an article in today’s New York Times, “Prepare Yourself for Grief,” Deanna Upchurch, director of clinical outreach services at the Providence-based hospice, HopeHealth, says “grief is as unique as a thumbprint.”  Reading that reminded me of what I had tried to communicate so many years ago and gave me permission, even in this season of rebirth and joy, to mourn.