As a child accompanying my father to funerals in the 1970s, I witnessed the death of the borough’s Jewish community, one person at a time
Returning our deceased to the soil honors the injunction for a proper burial—and keeps us mindful of the life cycle of which we’re a part
Just as we sing lullabies to newborns, I now offer the same loving care as part of my work with a burial fellowship
By giving a stranger a proper funeral, my community did a mitzvah. What if he wasn’t actually Jewish?
My father died on Sept. 9, 2001. The terrorist attacks two days later delayed his burial, a violation of Jewish law, but ultimately at least made me feel less alone in my grief.
A writer endeavors to learn exactly how ordinary people arrive at their systems of belief and disbelief