S
sojo
Guest
Story time, gather in close:
When I was 12, my Grandma died. She was Jewish and a Saint. She was a single Mom as her husband died shortly after she gave birth to her third child, and then their house burnt down. So she worked 2 jobs, commuting on a subway to raise the kids, but spent all her commute time knitting afghans that she handed out for free to all the poor souls she met on the subway. She worked as a maid and a nurses aid carrying bedpans. Back breaking work. But she squirreled away enough money for wool and gave the fruits of her labors out to those more poor or hurting or distressed.
So anyway, she died age 62. The funeral was long (or maybe I was just very young??), and the crowd overflowed into the street. When we exited, the crowd was filled with Blacks, Puerto Ricans, etc. who had been gifted with a “Mitzva” (blessed work, gift) from my Grandma. We knew she was generous, but we had no idea! They all touched our arms as we walked by and murmured, “Minnie was a Saint, we are so sorry…”
Then off to the cemetery for a looooong service (or maybe I was just very young??) in the pouring rain. It was very cold. And dismally dark.
Then back over the George Washington bridge to NJ for the usual after service gathering with loved ones.
While we were doing all this Jewish funeral stuff, my Mom’s two best friends - both Catholic - had been setting out a Kosher meal, as some of my relatives did keep Kosher. That meant paper plates and new disposable serving bowls, and a dairy spread. Nothing could touch any of our non-Kosher things.
And out on the front steps was the bowl of water for a ritual hand washing to cleanse from the “unclean” time at the funeral with the open coffin and cemetery service.
It is really just a finger dipping and a murmured prayer.
Many, many, many years later I dipped my fingers in the holy water font for the first time in memory of my baptism and made the sign of the cross. And the memory of those devout Jews waiting for their turn to dip their fingers in the bowl of water on our steps… it just rushed into my head. A profound moment of connection with my ancestral roots.
When I was 12, my Grandma died. She was Jewish and a Saint. She was a single Mom as her husband died shortly after she gave birth to her third child, and then their house burnt down. So she worked 2 jobs, commuting on a subway to raise the kids, but spent all her commute time knitting afghans that she handed out for free to all the poor souls she met on the subway. She worked as a maid and a nurses aid carrying bedpans. Back breaking work. But she squirreled away enough money for wool and gave the fruits of her labors out to those more poor or hurting or distressed.
So anyway, she died age 62. The funeral was long (or maybe I was just very young??), and the crowd overflowed into the street. When we exited, the crowd was filled with Blacks, Puerto Ricans, etc. who had been gifted with a “Mitzva” (blessed work, gift) from my Grandma. We knew she was generous, but we had no idea! They all touched our arms as we walked by and murmured, “Minnie was a Saint, we are so sorry…”
Then off to the cemetery for a looooong service (or maybe I was just very young??) in the pouring rain. It was very cold. And dismally dark.
Then back over the George Washington bridge to NJ for the usual after service gathering with loved ones.
While we were doing all this Jewish funeral stuff, my Mom’s two best friends - both Catholic - had been setting out a Kosher meal, as some of my relatives did keep Kosher. That meant paper plates and new disposable serving bowls, and a dairy spread. Nothing could touch any of our non-Kosher things.
And out on the front steps was the bowl of water for a ritual hand washing to cleanse from the “unclean” time at the funeral with the open coffin and cemetery service.
It is really just a finger dipping and a murmured prayer.
Many, many, many years later I dipped my fingers in the holy water font for the first time in memory of my baptism and made the sign of the cross. And the memory of those devout Jews waiting for their turn to dip their fingers in the bowl of water on our steps… it just rushed into my head. A profound moment of connection with my ancestral roots.
