When the Levee Breaks

About a year and a half ago, I was shopping at Loehmann's with my mother. There we were, hunting for bargains, sifting through the piles of discounted designer duds, when I came across a beautiful, simple black sheath dress from Calvin Klein.

I held the dress out, looked it over, smoothed out the sides, and took it with me to the dressing room. Upon realizing that it fit perfectly, I looked at my mother and said, "You know, I need something like this for funerals."

She nodded and I nodded, both of us acknowledging the sad truth that yes, every woman needs a simple, conservative black dress for such occasions. We purchased it, took it home, and I placed it in my closet toward the back of the dresses. That pretty but conservative dress would be worn once after that - fortunately, to a very important date with a very special man.

Yet I never, ever thought that the second time I would wear it - invoking it for its intended purpose - would be to the memorial service of a very dear friend.

That dress, that Calvin Klein sheath, carried me to Temple Akiba this past Friday, where along with several hundred others, I said goodbye to a coworker and fellow educator, a raucous, deliriously inappropriate, and infectiously happy individual, a wonderful human being, and a 29-year-old man who was just starting his life. That man, my dear friend Justin, died suddenly of a heart attack last Monday night.

When the news reached me early Tuesday morning, I, along with just about every single other person who knew and loved him, was in shock. I literally could not comprehend the information that passed through my ears. Just one day before, early Monday morning, I returned from eleven days in Israel. And as I sat in my apartment that night recuperating from the long flight, I received a Facebook message from Justin.

"Hey J.Fro! Welcome back! We missed you!" it said. This was presumably just a few hours or maybe minutes before he started feeling ill, was taken to the hospital, and suffered a massive heart attack while surrounded by qualified, educated, well-trained doctors.

On Tuesday night, when the religious school in which we taught together gathered to process and mourn, I spoke very briefly to the students about Justin; my friend and fellow 6th grade teacher. I told them how deeply he loved his job, how much he cared about his students, and how much they meant to him. I was in a state of shock still; unable to cry, unable to understand. The words I spoke were meant to comfort both myself and our community of teachers, students, and clergy. I have no idea what I said or how it came out; all I remember is standing in front of a group of people, making noises and saying words.

Looking into the eyes of those kids, some of whom were in his class but most of whom weren't, I saw the palpable, horrific realization of profound loss. They were scared, and upset, and in disbelief like the rest of us. Yet there was also a feeling of resilience, a deep and heartbreaking understanding, that reflected back at me as I spoke.

I was startled by the maturity and calm of these children, each of whom knew Justin personally - whether as their teacher or youth group advisor or the crazy guy with a booming voice who called everyone in from recess on Sunday mornings and Tuesday afternoons. These children looked back at me as if to say, "Jaclyn, it's okay. We're going to be okay. We'll get through this."

I, on the other hand, felt far from resilient. I spent the following few days in a fog. I cried on and off, constantly thinking about Justin and his family, feeling profoundly confused and angry, too. How could this happen? How could my partner-in-crime leave me so suddenly? What an unfair, horrific, terrible thing. I was also completely unsure of how to provide support to my students; to my religious school community. I felt massively unqualified to be a pastoral caregiver of any sort. How could I comfort anyone when I was so incredibly upset myself?

And yet, when Friday's memorial came around, and I sat in that overcrowded chapel with the teaching team from my synagogue, and listened to the words spoken about my dear friend from those who knew him best, I was reminded of how meaningful and well-done the Jewish process of mourning can be.

During the memorial, Akiba's rabbi, who I thought was awesome before but now think is extraordinary, claimed how his education failed him because he was simply unable to think of anything that could possibly comfort Justin's community. He acknowledged what we all realize at some point in our lives. Sometimes there are simply no words, no actions, no teachings or sayings that can possibly justify or lessen the pain of tragic, sudden loss. That Judaism makes no claims to do so is one of the reasons why I became a rabbi.

Rabbi S went on to speak of Justin in a way that set the tone for the entire rest of the service. With humor. Pointing out that Justin's uncle claimed his Hebrew name was [unofficially] "Pain in the Ass," Rabbi S opened us all to remember him as the nutty, loud, hilariously inappropriate person he was. Each subsequent speaker invoked humor and celebration in honor of Justin. And through that, we were able to say goodbye in a way that did justice to the unique, special being he was.

In that two-hour memorial, the floodgates opened. Each of us processed the realization that Justin was gone, though his spirit and his energy and his insatiable laughter lived on. We cried, we mourned, and we prayed together. We offered condolences and sincere sentiments of love to his family and fellow friends. And we also partied. In true J.Shabs fashion, a group of us headed out to happy hour to toast him, tell stories, and celebrate the gift we were given for two short years.

As Justin and I taught our classes together just a few short weeks ago, the Mourner's Kaddish (Kaddish Yatom) never speaks of death. It speaks of life, and to the people who continue on living. It speaks of our people's quest for peace. And in that prayer, those among us who have suffered loss are extended comfort by the entire community. We do not know where our loved ones go, but we know that those of us still living have the words of our tradition and the shoulders of our loved ones to lean on.

There could be no more fitting tribute to Justin than that.

Jaclyn