by Zvi Baranoff
This letter will bring little or no comfort. There are no words that will help.
I am sure others have already said all of the supposedly comforting things that we say to each other when death is the topic. You have been told that Mom is in a better place, she is no longer suffering, she is in the arms of God. You have been told that you will get over the loss.
But it seems unlikely to me that there is a castle in the sky with golden stools for those that pass to sit on. Lack of suffering is the absence of existence because life itself is suffering. If God is everywhere, we are all already enveloped in his arms, and that is a sentiment bordering on the meaningless. And the loss through death of one that we love is a loss that we never overcome.
Of course, all of those things that people say are untrue and/or not particularly helpful, but it is the sort of things that we say to each other at these times.
We were brought into this world without planning and travel without a map to a destination unknown. On the way, we do the best we can with what we have. We travel surrounded by pilgrims and pirates and fellow travelers of other sorts, yet we each travel the path primarily on our own. It is a long, strange trip for everyone. None of us can make the journey for another. No one can walk in another's shoes, but along the way we can share a blanket, a loaf of bread, a story, a dream, a thought, a moment or two.
Hang in there. It will continue to be a long, complicated and unexplainable trip. We share the same path. I share this moment with you.
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