Last updated on June 24, 2020
Growing up in an observant Jewish household, I had a time-honored roadmap for how to mourn. But when my mother died near the end of April, it was all too clear that a traditional memorial service, burial and shiva were out of the question. Most of the pre-planned arrangements I’d painstakingly made were now defunct. Would we be able to have a funeral and, if so, how many family members could attend? Would we live-stream it to my brother and his children, who all lived across the country? Many of the decisions weren’t up to me. But the one question I kept being asked, for which I had no clear response, was “Will you be having a zoom shiva?”.
According to shiva.com, this practice is either called a virtual shiva or viewneral. Although guests do not attend in person, it still enables them to pay respect to the mourners and, ostensibly, for mourners to be comforted by their presence. The site goes on to say that virtual shiva is very similar to traditional shiva. But to me, shiva is a time for hugs and warmth, tables laden with comfort food, and a minyan in the living room for evening prayers. I could not wrap my head around what a zoom shiva would be like, and how it would give me solace. I did not want to find myself in an uncomfortable social situation at an already difficult time. A friend who had just lost her mother conducted two nights of zoom shiva, which she described as “a nightmare.” There were sixty tiny faces on her computer screen, she said, each saying the words “I’m sorry,” before exiting the room. It left her feeling isolated and alone. This, I knew, I did not want. But how could I uphold the practice and receive the comfort that I needed?
As a child, I always knew when my parents were going on a shiva call. There would be a string-tied bakery box on the counter, which I was admonished not to touch. It was usually a Sunday, and in winter snow or summer heat, they went to extend condolences to whomever had lost a loved one. When I held shiva for my father almost twenty years ago, the house was overflowing with people, and yes, I was comforted, but also overwhelmed.
Still, I grappled with what to do. Another friend told me he had been invited to, and attended, a zoom funeral. I asked, had he known the deceased? He had not, and the person who invited him wasn’t a particularly close friend. Although I’m sure his presence was appreciated, this helped me begin to realize what would and wouldn’t work for me; there were only certain people I really longed to be with during this time. I decided I wanted to “see” those who were closest to me, or to my mother, and would request they join me, in small and intimate groups, at one of the zoom shiva calls I planned to schedule throughout the week.
People had a lot of questions. Were we able to have a funeral (yes, it was intimate and lovely, but eerie, with more fresh graves than I’d ever seen), had the family seen my mom before she passed (yes, albeit through a window), and what did we need during this painful time? I began to realize the advantages of zoom shiva. I only saw those I wanted to see, at the times that worked for me. There was no coffee to brew and, better, no clean-up. There were benefits for visitors, too, with no travel or traffic to contend with, no cake or fruit platter jostling around in the car or subway. We blew air kisses across cyberspace.
My psyche still sought out the familiar. Each day, I dressed in black and affixed the Kriah (mourning ribbon) over my heart. I sat on my low shiva stool as much as possible, and certainly during calls. I accepted comfort meals for two, since the post-funeral repast for forty was no longer something we could use. (Instead, we were able to donate the catered meals to hospitals and nursing homes). I even felt compelled to bake a cake and leave it on the table, just in case…I didn’t know what. Some of my zoom visitors, too, sought to uphold social practices, and dressed up for their shiva call-in. Hair and makeup are optional these days, and I appreciated the effort they clearly made on my behalf. The one shiva call I cancelled, because I was feeling overwhelmed, was simply rescheduled for the following day.
In Judaism, shiva is an important rite to comfort the family as they adjust to life without their loved one. There were times I talked a river, as is appropriate for someone grieving, during the shiva call. Most visits lasted two to four hours, a surprising length but, after all, a mourners’ time should be occupied during those first, difficult days.
I felt ready to move on to the next phase, sheloshim, the bridge between mourning and normal activity, a span of thirty days during which I would acclimate to my loss, but also let go of the angst and worry that accompanied caring for a sick parent. I put on my mask and gloves and embarked on the traditional walk around the block to signify the end of shiva, my husband at my side. How did it go for me, he wanted to know? I have never felt so supported and comforted, I answered truthfully, it was a wonderful experience. Of course, he replied, you only spent shiva with the people who love you the most. And why not, I thought. I needed the consolation of those closest to my heart, whether they were near or far. That is what sitting shiva should provide, after all.
I’m so sorry to hear about your loss… This year has been especially tough on many levels. I am touched to see that you arranged the shiva in a way that would feel meaningful, connecting, and honorable in remembrance of your mom.
Thank you for reading, Anazette!
Greate pieces. Keep posting such kind of info on your page. Nelli Ezra Kessel
💔 Michelle, I am so sorry for you loss. I know in my heart your Mom was pleased and thankful to have had such a Beautiful,Intelligent,Wonderful woman, for her daughter.. Your creative drawing clearly,
Says it all! Stay strong my friend through this difficult Chapter of your life, I often think of you and feel blessed to have you as my life long friend ,
Karen C.
Thank you so much, my friend. I emailed you.