The funeral of a young man.

Funerals! Sad occasions at the best of times, but especially so when the person is relatively young, and the promise of better things to come is cut short.  All their earthly efforts lying on the ground in dust and ashes.  One doesn't mind too much when the person is old and daily living has become a real challenge.  It is then that we are much more likely to welcome death with open arms.  Sad? yes.. but not overwhelmingly so.  More a mixture of sadness, tinged with a good dollop of relief.

On this particular day, I attended the funeral of a young Jewish man.  A friend of my son's.  I have attended exactly three Jewish funerals during my lifetime, and I am always struck by the simplicity and reverence of the ceremony.  No flowers. No singing. No sitting in a synagogue.  No eulogies.  Just the bare bones. 

Standing in the foyer, I see many lists adorning the walls with names of people who have "passed on".  Passed on I think is such a funny way of saying died.  It's almost as if the person is sitting in a half-way house between life and death.  I didn't die, I just passed on, and here I am sitting in the "passed on" station, waiting for my train to come in.  I think perhaps it is a way of softening the blow of death.  In my country it is common practice in the black culture to say that the person who died is"late".  Late for what we may ask? Definitely not the funeral!  Different countries and cultures have unique ways of doing things, and we need to be respectful of this.

Back to my Jewish funeral story.  With a clang and a clatter, the lift on the one side of the foyer opened to reveal a pine coffin, draped in a black cloth, and lying on a steel gurney.  It is from here that the journey to the graveside begins.  The Rabbi, a small gentle sounding man starts the proceedings with a prayer for repentance, followed by a prayer of long life for the family.  Eight men are asked to come forward to push the coffin to it's final resting place. This is a somber affair, traversed in almost total silence, and broken only by the jolting and rattling of the gurney, as it rolled down the stony path.  

A small breeze ruffles the leaves in the trees, and a few purple flowers drift gently down and settle quietly on the ground.  Even they seem to know that this is a reverend moment.  We stop once more, and listen to a psalm being read in Hebrew, with a synopsis given in English.  More men come forward for the next leg of the journey.  Two more stops, more prayers, more replacements and then we are there, standing beside the open grave.  The coffin is unceremoniously lowered into the hole, by means of ropes.  Once the final prayers are said, a male member of the family, in this case his half brother is asked to shovel three spadefuls of soil into the grave.  The clods of earth make a hollow sound as they hit the coffin.  His mother and siblings weep quietly, as all the men take turns at filling in the gaping hole. This now is the last resting place of their beloved son and brother.