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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