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8 | APRIL 16 • 2020 

1942 - 2020

Covering and Connecting 
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essay
Tomorrow
I

t’
s 12:52 a.m. I have become 
accustomed to being awake 
at this hour — ever since the 
world became so much less pre-
dictable and suddenly… 
 quiet. 
 For weeks, coronavirus has 
wreaked havoc on our com-
munities, showing no bias to 
age, gender or 
nationality. Our 
daily routines 
have been shat-
tered, we’
ve been 
confined to our 
homes and uncer-
tainty grows like 
the stubble on the 
working man’
s 
face — he has 
nowhere to go and nothing to 
shave for.
Continuing the shaving 
analogy, I contemplate the 
Jewish prohibition of shaving 
or taking a haircut when one 
is in mourning for the loss of a 
close relative. Additionally, the 
house of mourning becomes a 
place of solitude, an island of 
its own amongst the presumed 
normalcy of the outside world. 
Mourners are expected to cover 
their mirrors, worrying less 
about vanity; sit on low chairs as 
a sign of discomfort; and refrain 
from normal and enjoyable 
activities that symbolize a nor-

mal existence. For seven days 
the mourners are consoled by 
visitors and community mem-
bers — sympathizing with the 
mourner’
s loss but also reaffirm-
ing the personal and communal 
celebration and commitment to 
life — and all its seasons.
We, dear friends, are in 
mourning. We have been 
confined to our own personal 
islands, disoriented by the loss 
of both spiritual and physical 
life as we knew it and humbled 
by the lack of control we were 
so certain we possessed. So what 
then? You may ask. What are 
we mourning? When do visitors 
come to comfort us? And better 
yet, when will this all be over? 
While I do not possess defin-
itive answers to these questions, 
my heart leads me to believe 
that truth and healing lie with-
in the details. Let me explain. 
Our sages mandated a set time 
for mourning with the innate 
understanding that people 
needed to drown out the dis-
tractions of the world in order 
to create time for memorial, 
reflection and introspection. 
Mourners are thus forced to 
realize that life has changed 
and will no longer be the same. 
We can learn from this, too. By 
focusing on the newness and 

difference that now dictates 
life without a “loved one,
” we 
allow ourselves to prioritize 
and memorialize the old and 
then bravely step — now more 
mature and clearheaded — into 
the new. 
Loss of a loved one, in our 
present pandemic, means 
something different for all of 
us. Whether we have physically 
lost someone to this disease or 
have otherwise felt the comfort 
of time and routine so harshly 
taken from us, the pain and loss 
can feel the same and is thus 
equally devastating. So, here we 
sit, low to the ground, waiting 
for comfort to arrive and hope-
fully with the traditional cake or 
deli tray … not quite, not this 
time.
As we sit here during our 
analogous seven-day period of 
mourning, we need to ask our-
selves: What have we lost? What 
do we regret? What or whom 
do we wish we could have had 
more time with and how much 
would we give for just a little 
more time? For some of us, 
that takes the shape of wishing 
for more time with family or 
loved ones. Better attention to 
employees or co-workers. More 
dedication to personal values 
or causes. Or less distraction by 

our social media sites or stock 
portfolios. Once we know what 
we have lost, only then can we 
again commit to properly living 
life. 
In living life, I implore you to 
choose a meaningful path that 
encompasses a power greater 
than yourselves and to embrace 
an ethical existence that encour-
ages positivity and love — rath-
er than the complacency that 
binds us to fear and hate. Tell 
the people you love how much 
they mean to you, do acts of 
kindness and charity for strang-
ers, give more and expect less 
— embrace the power of “we” 
instead of the loneliness of “me.
” 
History will judge us not 
for what happened to us but 
how we reacted because of it. 
We have the capacity to create 
strength from our suffering and 
a garden from our tears. All we 
have to do is own and access it 
and its growth potential. It’
s a 
time to grow and a time to act.
So, go now, my friends, the 
hour is late, the seventh day’
s 
sun is going down into night. 
What lies in store for you and all 
of us — tomorrow? 

Rabbi Benyamin Vineburg is a chaplain 
resident with Michigan Medicine.

Rabbi 
Benyamin 
Vineburg

