And Sarah died… and Avraham came to eulogize Sarah and to grieve for her. (Bereishis 23:2)

Upon leaving the home of a mourner, one comforts the mourner by stating, “HaMakom yenachem… May the Omnipresent [literal translation: “the Place”] comfort you among the other mourners of Tzion and Yerushalayim.”

There are two glaring questions we can ask about this phrase. First, Hashem has many names — why here do we call Him the Place?

Secondly, why do we include the other mourners of Tzion and Yerushalayim? Is this a consolation to an individual mourner? (Rav Yaakov Shlomo Weinberg, The Torah Connection)

I was 18 the first time I was menachem avel. Until then, I’d always managed to wriggle out of going. I’m an empathetic person by nature, and I couldn’t fathom the horror of what the aveilim were experiencing, and therefore couldn’t allow myself to go and experience it with them.

Yet my first shivah call was nothing like I expected. I hadn’t known the niftar, didn’t even really know most of the aveilim, but one was my colleague and I felt pressured to attend.

I walked in hesitantly, almost bent with my grief for them. Yet the place was alive with noise, people talking and gesturing. From my place in the corner I listened to the attempts of those trying to comfort:

“Well, he was 75, he lived a full life.”

“You have your own beautiful family, that must be a comfort to you.”

“I still think you should have tried auto-immune therapy.”

As if that opinion made any difference now.

I walked out, more bent in grief than when I’d entered — grief that in that crowded room, there had been no room for mourning.

The Midrash (Bereishis 68:10) states that Hashem is “The Place” of the world, but the world is not “His place.” What does this mean?

Hashem is not contained by the world; He encompasses it and transcends it. Therefore, using the name “the Place” is comforting to mourners. For if Hashem were contained by one place — i.e., the world — then when someone passes from this world, he would pass out of Hashem’s existence. But by mentioning “HaMakom,” we remind the mourners that although the niftar is no longer in this world, he’s still in His Place.

Seeing many of these shivah homes, I became more confused. Everyone who came to be menachem avel really meant well. They cared. But why were they attempting to comfort in such absurd ways?

Sitting shivah myself several years ago gave me new insight into what really constitutes comfort. Imagine you met a man who had his leg amputated. Would you say to him, “Well, you had your leg for 45 years, you must be so grateful?”

“Baruch Hashem you still have your right one, that must be a comfort.”

“I still think you should’ve tried leeches. That might have saved it.”

The irony of such “comforting” comments borders on cruelty. An avel has had something amputated from his life. There’s a gaping hole that cannot be filled with platitudes and empty clichés.

Before going further, we need to understand what true comfort is. Comfort doesn’t mean helping the mourners to forget the niftar, attempting to fill their empty hole. The only real comfort is when the niftar will return.

Dovid Hamelech says in Tehillim (126: 1): “When Hashem will return the captivity of Tzion we will be like dreamers.”

When someone has a nightmare, at the time he’s terrified, but when he wakes up he realizes it didn’t actually occur. The horror of death is only a temporary separation. When we wake up at the time of techiyas hameisim, we’ll realize it was only a dream. That’s why we mention the mourners of Tzion and Yerushalayim when comforting an individual mourner. At present, he’s missing something, but it’s only temporary. When Hashem returns to Tzion and Yerushalayim, He’ll be reunited with His loved one.

These days when I go to be menachem avel, I’m usually silent. I cannot attempt to fill their gaping hole, but I can be a comforting presence if they want to share. If I have a memory of the niftar, I’ll share it too. Memories cannot fill the hole, but they can cushion its jagged edges.

And when I get up to leave, I give them my best effort at nechamah. “HaMakom yenachem…”

The aveilim are left with a black swirling abyss. There’s only One Place that can fill it.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 615)