My father-in-law died. A 5’3 Jamaican firecracker. Unstoppable. Loud. He was a community man. A respected and loved community man, who was an Elder in his congregation. I miss him.
He was actually my husband’s grandfather, but with his significant role in raising Neil, and the imagery of little Neil following him around to all his engagements (read: dominos and church), it’s no wonder everyone called him “Neil’s father”.
When he died, just before Christmas, there was no playbook to follow. We flew to England to be with family and plan a funeral. A week later, there’d been no funeral. And there wasn’t a clear path to one. People had swung by the house to visit and have an obligatory English cup of tea. We were happy to be together as a family.
The lack of organization and structure was hard for me to find peace with. I was losing my marbles.
As I think back to previous funerals in my community, I am now struck with how much religion guided us. There are things about all religions that I respect and things I disagree with, but when it comes to mourning, Shiva works for me.
There are rules around where you need to be, where you need to sit, what you need to wear. There are traditions about who should bring you food and etiquette for visiting hours.
At the time of my father-in-law’s passing, I was sure: The world needs to adopt the practice of sitting Shiva.
Having recently, eight months later, buried his ashes in a place that was meaningful to him and the family, under perennial flowers that he will forever nourish, I am reconsidering. It felt good and complete.
The world has a plethora of ways to mourn. Some people need structure, others are more flexible, but ultimately, there is no “right”. Mourning is personal.
bklnmom 