Why I Love Shiva
The ritual isn't just a source of solace; it can also be surprisingly fun
This essay is part of a new collection of work inspired by the anthology On Being Jewish Now: Reflections of Authors and Advocates. Want to contribute? Instructions here. Subscribe here.
Of all the things I love about being Jewish – and there are a lot of them – sitting shiva tops the list.
I realize how absurd that sounds. In a contest that includes eight nights of Chanukah and eight years of overnight summer camp, a sanctioned weekly day of rest, babka, rugelach, and 3,500 years of history, it’s the way we grieve that reigns supreme for me.
The first time I sat shiva was after my stepfather, Frank, died. I was 27. Frank had cancer, and his death didn’t come as a surprise. During the last days of his life, I had time not only to imagine what the shiva would be like, but even to prepare for it logistically.
I had paid a few shiva calls in my 20s, mostly for my friends’ grandparents. I’d fumbled through consoling the primary grievers, joined in saying kaddish, and partaken of the bagels and kugel. I always felt a bit of relief when I left the shiva house. Mitzvah accomplished, I left the stale air behind and returned to my regular life.
I leaned on those experiences as I got ready for Frank’s shiva. I pictured my family sitting quietly in a hushed, dark room. I worried about my mother collapsing emotionally after years of caring for her husband. I made color-coded spreadsheets for my two older sisters, Nomi and Rachel, outlining who was bringing what when, assigning “bubbe duty” each day, and divvying up the list of people to be notified. I had contingency plans for my contingency plans.
I accounted for every possibility except the one that actually came to pass: I never imagined that the week of shiva would be one of the most treasured times I’d ever spend with my family.
Growing up, we were close in every way but the literal one. We confided in each other, leaned on each other, showed up for each other. We loved each other fully. But we didn’t actually spend much concentrated time together.
We revolved around each other in our home – an ecosystem that thrived in each other’s proximity, but each spinning in our own orbit.
And then came Frank’s shiva.
For a full week, the seven ladies in my family were together all day, every day. Bookended by Bubbe at 98 and Nomi’s 1-year-old daughter, Liat, we ate together, laughed together, and cried together. We created new memories as we explored our old ones. Even while it was happening I knew we were in the middle of something holy.
“Is it weird that I’m having fun?” I asked.
“It’s fun and awful and weird and beautiful,” my mother answered. “Just like life.”
Three months later, my sister Nomi died suddenly at age 30.
Just hours after she died, people began congregating in her home. Family, friends, and neighbors crowded every room as the news spread. I remember little about that first night, or even the week that followed. It felt impossible that my sister, who’d been my best friend since the day I was born, was gone. The hazy bubble I’d lived in up to that point was permanently punctured.
The texture of Nomi’s shiva was entirely different from Frank’s. There was no preparation, no laughter, no closure… just shock. But there was a community that came together to weep and pray and hold my family in our sadness.
There was no way I could have gone back to my regular life after Nomi died. Shiva meant I didn’t have to. It was the ultimate time out of time.
The rhythm of shiva provided a bit of order in a world that was spinning out of control. I knew where to be and what to do (mostly nothing). There were people who made sure I ate and napped, whose presence padded the gaping hold of Nomi’s absence.
It was after this shiva that my boyfriend told me he’d decided to convert to Judaism. A community that comes together as powerfully in grief as it does for other life-cycle events is a pretty compelling proposition. We were married a year and a half later, under a chuppah.
Shiva brings us together and sets us apart. It reminds us that we’re not alone and nourishes us literally and figuratively as we set out on our grief journeys. Shiva can be quiet, boisterous, devastating, surprising. Just like life.
Jessica Fein is the author of Breath Taking: A Memoir of Family, Dreams, and Broken Genes and host of the "I Don't Know How You Do It” podcast, which features people whose lives seem unimaginable from the outside. Her writing has appeared in The New York Times, Newsweek, Psychology Today, The Boston Globe, HuffPost, and more. Her work encompasses hope and humor, grit and grace—the tools that make up her personal survival kit.
Instagram: @feinjessica
This essay is part of a new collection of work inspired by the anthology On Being Jewish Now: Reflections of Authors and Advocates. Want to contribute? Instructions here. Subscribe here.
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