Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Sally Srok Friedes has spoken about her conversion experience at temples on both coasts, has written for several parenting publications, appeared on Lifetime Television's A"Our Home,A" hosted satellite tours across the country, and has worked as a panelist on the radio program, A"What Would Your Mother Say?A" broadcast at KZSU in Stanford, CA.

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The New Jew

O Books

Chapter One

"I don't care when you schedule my next appointment," Bernice dictated to the doctor from her hospital bed. "Except for February 11th. You'll just have to work around that date." The doctor hesitated. "February 11th?"

"That's the day my daughter-in-law is converting to Judaism," she beamed.

Now, one month later, my mother-in-law, my source of unfaltering love, lay dead before me.

I couldn't know that in her death, all the pieces of what brought me to Judaism would come to life. Traditions, rituals, prayer and community ... in their practice I would see that my becoming Jewish was fate, bashert as it is known in Hebrew. Had I not converted to Judaism, I wouldn't have been able to move through Bernice's death and my mourning with acceptance and full consciousness. The mourner's kaddish, the service, the outpouring from friends and family, the shiva-they were all instrumental in my healing. But I couldn't know that, crying into Michael's shoulder at the foot of the hospital bed. All I knew was that my beloved mother-in-law was gone.

* * *

I burst through the swinging door of the ICU wing hours earlier and found my husband standing in the corridor, arms limp by his side, looking stunned. I threw my arms around his neck and pulled away, studying his face.

"Where is she?"

"In the next room."

"How is she?"

"Not good."

Michael led me into the curtained cubicle where Bernice lay motionless, clear tubes suspended from her nose, her arm, the back of her hand. She looked like a marionette laid to rest. I approached her and touched her hand, which felt warm and lifeless all at once. Her balding head, with random wispy tufts of hair, reminded me all too vividly of the torment chemotherapy had wreaked on her body. We stayed with her, Bernice's boyfriend, and Michael's aunt, uncle and cousin joining us, the backdrop of the beeping monitors from beyond the hospital curtain ticking away the minutes of Bernice's life. I so wanted her to come out of the coma, but I had to ask myself, if she had, what would she return to? Her stage four of non-Hodgkin's lymphoma had already robbed us of her effervescence and strength. She had deteriorated rapidly, falling asleep in her chair on our last visit, a table spilling over with pill bottles by her side.

When the doctor declared Bernice's time of death and Michael leaned his head into my shoulder sobbing, when we hugged each other and walked out into the impossible sunlight, unable to fathom how people could be hurrying by and the world could continue when my mother-in-law had just taken her last breath, I wondered: What now?

Bernice wasn't just a cog in our wheel; she was the motor that made the whole machine work. The point person for our family, she coordinated everything from holidays to dinners out, arranging rides, making restaurant and theater reservations, purchasing gifts. At times she was the glue in my marriage. Several years earlier I had decided to separate from Michael, wanting to walk away from the strain in our marriage caused by starting a business together and raising a newborn. It was Bernice who held us together by insisting, "First of all, when people separate they rarely get back together. And, second of all, if you separate, Michael is moving in with me-I'll whip him into shape!"

* * *

We had a funeral to plan. Walking into Bernice's apartment, a space that seemed eerily still without her, Michael said just one thing: "I want Rabbi Sirkman."

His voice, formidable with conviction, took me by surprise. Rabbi Sirkman was the rabbi with whom I had studied avidly for nearly 2 years for my conversion. While I had a close relationship with him, Bernice had met him just once, the day I became Jewish. And Michael had had very few interactions with the rabbi.

"I'll call him right away."

I studied my husband as he reached into the cabinet for the phone book. How does Michael do this? I wondered. Moments ago he requested a rabbi. Now he sat on the sofa, thumbing through the white pages for the funeral home, preparing to call countless friends.

As my husband dialed numbers from his mother's worn address book, I ducked into his childhood bedroom to use the second phone.

"Rabbi, hi." I was relieved to get him on the phone immediately.

"Sally! Hello! How are you?"

"Well, actually, not so good. My mother-in-law died this morning." I bit back the tears, wanting very much to get through the conversation without crying.

"My God, that was fast. I'm sorry. How's Michael?"

"He's, well, everything. He's calling friends and family right now." I thought of my husband in the other room, re-experiencing his mother's death over and over, telling people the news, as I made this one call. "Rabbi, Michael wanted to know if you would conduct the funeral."

The rabbi was quiet for a moment. "Tomorrow is Shabbat, which means the funeral will have to be Sunday." The rabbi visualized his calendar aloud. I knew what he was calculating, having learned in my conversion studies that, in Jewish law, the deceased is to be buried within 24 hours of death, in reverence to both the deceased and the surviving loved ones. A speedy burial ensures the loved one is laid to rest, returned to the earth, allowing the family to begin mourning. When I learned of the tradition, I couldn't imagine the stress, requiring people to travel on such short notice and forcing the family to make funeral arrangements in the span of one day. But now, from the inside of my grief, I could appreciate the wisdom of the tradition. The tasks before us seemed too much to bear-writing an obituary, selecting a casket, preparing a service, organizing a shiva, and so much more. Having the funeral underway in the next day, moving us out of the torment of planning and into the phase of mourning, seemed the most compassionate gift I could have received.

But Bernice's funeral would have to be delayed. She died on a Thursday, the day before the Sabbath. And since, in the Jewish faith, the Sabbath, which begins sundown Friday and concludes Saturday, is considered the most important holiday; nothing is to infringe on the traditions-not even a death.

"Sunday is a tough day ... Susan and I have this family thing. It's important,"

Rabbi Sirkman continued, thinking aloud. I could hear the struggle in his voice. I knew the rabbi's schedule was demanding, constantly pulling him away from his wife and children. Weddings, funerals, hospital and hospice visits, in addition to his daily rabbinic duties, made it difficult to commit to family time. Weekends were rarely his to enjoy; Wednesday was his day off, hardly a day for picnics and family gatherings.

"It's okay. I understand. It's late notice." It seemed foolish, saying such a thing. When is a funeral not spontaneous? I felt guilty asking the rabbi for such a favor. While Michael and I were temple members, Bernice was not. The rabbi could not possibly conduct funeral services for every extended-family member for every congregant. And now I was putting him in the awkward position of having to say no.

"But," he said with audible certainty, "I want to do this for you and Michael....