She is Pure

By Susan Esther Barnes

My day started with the strangest shopping trip I’ve ever been on. The evening before, I had been at the phone bank where we were calling congregants to ask for donations to our annual Tradition of Giving Campaign.

While I was there, Rabbi Lezak called me into a private room to let me know a member of our congregation had just died. She had been suffering from cancer for some time, and I had agreed to be one of the people to perform taharah for her, the ritual washing of her body and preparing her for burial.

I had been preparing for this for about a year, ever since Rabbi Lezak had said we were planning to expand our Bikkur Cholim group, a group of people who visit the sick, to become a Chevra Kadisha, a holy society or group of friends, to perform taharah. Although our congregation was formed over 50 years ago, to my knowledge we had never before had a Chevra Kadisha there.

I read about it, and I attended a seminar on it in San Francisco. I also attended the series of classes Rabbi Lezak offered to us at the synagogue. One evening, Sue Lefelstein, the Associate Executive Director of Sinai Memorial Chapel in Lafayette, came out to give us a copy of the procedure manual they use, and to explain the process.

The night before the congregant I mentioned above died, about 20 to 25 of us went to Sinai Memorial Chapel where Sue led us as we performed taharah on a manikin for practice.

When I first thought about doing taharah, it really freaked me out. It seemed like an incredibly scary thing to do. Then, last summer, my friend Rose died, may her memory be a blessing. I sat with her in the morning on the day she died, and suddenly taharah seemed much less frightening. How could Rose’s body ever be scary? But she had chosen not to have taharah done for her.

As I got closer to actually doing it, it became even less scary. While I stood in the room at Sinai Memorial, watching the washing of the manikin, I found myself feeling completely calm. I was prepared.

Except we as a Chevra Kadisha weren’t entirely prepared. We had only just finished the training the night before when we learned of this congregant’s death. If she and her family had chosen Sinai Memorial, or any Jewish establishment, as her mortuary, they would have had all the taharah supplies available to us on hand.

This family had chosen a non-religious mortuary, however, which meant we couldn’t be sure what supplies they would have available to us. And because our tradition is to bury people within 48 hours of death whenever feasible, that meant we would be doing taharah on her the next day. Thus, my sudden shopping trip for taharah supplies.

Fortunately, Sue, the angel from Sinai Memorial, had given us a list of things we would need. I grabbed my list and headed to Target, arriving just as they opened at 8am. For all I knew, the mortuary might be ready for us as early as 9:30 or 10, and I didn’t want to hold things up.

As I walked down the aisles, I thought about my odd list and how I didn’t want to say anything that might get me arrested. For instance, when I asked a clerk where I could find nail polish remover, I thought, “If she says something like, ‘We recommend this one because it has aloe which is good for the long term health of your nails,’ it would probably be a bad idea for me to respond with something like, ‘Oh, I’m not worried about that. We’re only going to be using it on dead people.’”

As I was at the check-out counter, Rabbi Lezak called on my cell phone to tell me the coffin delivery was delayed due to it being Veteran’s Day, and therefore we wouldn’t be able to do taharah until the afternoon. So it turned out there had been no need to rush.

Although my heart was racing as I drove the last few blocks to the mortuary, as we met with Rabbi Lezak and talked about the woman who had died and what we were going to do, I relaxed.

When we walked into the preparation room (without the rabbi, since only women are allowed to wash women), I found I was perfectly calm. I thought I would feel a jolt of anxiety the first time I saw a real person covered by a sheet, but I didn’t.

So we washed her, and one of us said the prayers, and we poured the ritual water over her while we repeated three times in Hebrew, “She is pure, she is pure, she is pure.” Then we dried her and dressed her. It was all done with deliberate, loving care.

She had been ill for so long and had lost so much weight that we didn’t need to use the electric lift to move her into the coffin. I had the privilege of being one of the three people to move her.

I will never forget the feeling as I cradled her in my arms and gently lowered her into her coffin. The only way I can describe it is it felt purely, wholly right. We covered the coffin and asked her forgiveness for anything we may have omitted, or any error, or anything we may have done to offend her.

I thought, “This is such a beautiful thing. How could anyone who knows about taharah not want it done for themselves and for their loved ones? Why would anyone want this done by strangers, no matter how competent they may be, rather than by their own, loving community?”

Afterward, we spent about 20 minutes talking with each other, as a transition before we hugged each other and got into our cars to leave.

Because we had started so late, it was already getting dark. Usually I equate darkness with lifelessness, but as I drove home I found myself feeling deeply aware of the incredible abundance of life all around me.

As I navigated my way through the rush hour traffic, I found that whereas when I drive I normally think of the cars around me as just vehicles, I was suddenly acutely aware that inside each vehicle was a person. As I drove I was part of a stream of living, breathing, human beings all heading in the same direction down the freeway.

On several occasions I have heard Rabbi Lezak say, “Get close to death. It will bring you closer to life.” I thought I knew what he meant, but now I finally understand.

Adventures in Passover Shopping

By Susan Esther Barnes

I’m not a shopper. It’s a small thing, really, but sometimes it doesn’t feel like it. Whether it is food, clothing, or something else, my goal is to go in, get what I need, and get out as quickly as possible so I can get on with whatever it is I really want to be doing that day. Anything that slows me down is agitating.

Unsurprisingly, shopping for Thanksgiving is not my favorite thing in the world. I know the parking lot will be crowded, the store will be packed, and the checkout lines will be slow, but at least I’m confident that, with a bit of patience, eventually I will escape with everything I need. Not so with Passover.

Sure, in the days before Passover the store won’t be as crowded as it is leading up to Thanksgiving, but, depending on its proximity to Easter, it may not be a walk in the park, either. But, for me at least, the true tension has always been in wondering how many stores I will need to visit to get everything I need. Often, the trip involves at least one stop for staples such as chicken broth, another stop for various items the first store didn’t have in stock, and a third stop at one of the shrinking number of delis still in existence that carries chopped liver.

For those of you accustomed to the US Thanksgiving traditions, consider what it would be like if you arrived at the store a day or two before Thanksgiving and found you could get most of the things you wanted, but there were no turkeys or cranberries. On Passover, it’s worse. If you can’t get a brisket, that may feel like not getting a turkey on Thanksgiving, but you can substitute a chicken or something else for the main course.

However, the Passover meal isn’t equivalent to Thanksgiving dinner. It’s a religious holiday during which we remember our time as slaves in Egypt and celebrate our freedom. Some of the foods associated with the holiday, like the foods associated with Thanksgiving in the US, are purely traditional. Brisket and gefilte fish fall into this category.

On the other hand, in Hebrew the holiday is “Pesach,” which means “order.” As such, there are certain things we’re supposed to do in a certain order, such as eating bitter herbs with matzo. We may exercise some discretion in our choice of which bitter herbs to use, but the matzo needs to be there, it must be kosher for Passover, and there needs to be a lamb shank bone on the seder plate.

When I lived on the San Francisco Peninsula, I shopped at a local market. Some years they seemed to have everything I needed, and other years they didn’t, but they were always very helpful. Once, when I asked for brisket, the butcher shook his head, thought a moment, then asked me how many pounds I wanted it to be. He asked me to wait a moment, wheeled a side of beef out of the walk-in refrigerator, went zip-zip-zip with a knife, and plopped a nice brisket on the scale, saying, “Here you go!” In these days of pre-packaged meat, I believe that may be the first, and the last, time I’ve ever had the chance to see a real butcher in action. Similarly, in years when there were no lamb shank bones set aside, they always managed to scrounge something up for me.

Since then, I have moved to Marin County, which is, I’ve been told, the county with the largest percentage of Jews in the state. So you would think the stores here would know a thing or two about Passover. Unfortunately, although they gamely put out a display with some matzo and other niceties, they just don’t seem to have caught on to some of the finer points. Neither Lucky nor Safeway seem to have twigged to the notion that every Spring people come up to the meat counter to ask for a brisket and a lamb shank bone.

As a result, it has become a tradition for me to improvise by having a plan for a non-brisket dinner in my mind just in case, and to seek out the cheapest package of bone-in lamb I can find, so I can cut the meat off and pretend the bone is a shank. Not exactly kosher, but it’s closer to the real deal than the alternative of beets I recently heard is used by vegetarians to symbolize lamb’s blood in its place. And pity the poor man I encountered one year, whose wife sent him to the store in search of schmaltz, absolutely required for her chopped liver recipe, but unheard of in Safeway.

This year, finally, I did something I have never done before. Indeed, it had never before occurred to me. This year, I shopped at a particular store for no reason other than I had heard it was owned by Jews. Yes, I went to Mollie Stone’s, and there I found the answer to my prayers. There was chopped liver in the deli case, piles of brisket in the meat department, kosher-for-Passover horseradish in both the red and white varieties, cases of chicken broth – on sale no less! – you get the picture. Everything all under one roof.

The guy at the meat counter didn’t look at me funny when I shyly asked for a lamb bone. Instead, he said, “Of course!” and immediately handed one over. Free of charge. The guy at the check-out lane glanced over my items, recognized what they were for, and asked if there was something in Hebrew he could say that would be appropriate for others doing their holiday shopping. I recommended “chag sameach,” which he repeated several times and wrote down for future reference.

For the first time during my years of Passover shopping I felt like I’d been in a store that said, “Jews are welcome here!” It’s not like I’ve ever had an experience like my father did at a store in Idaho, where he asked for lox and was told, “Sorry, we’re out, all those Jews got it already.” But there is something so welcoming, that is such a relief, in knowing there is someplace I can go without worrying about whether they will have what I need or if they will look at me like I’m a nut when I ask. It’s a small thing, really, but sometimes it doesn’t feel like it.