Three women share how they began doing the holy work of the Chevra Kaddisha, and its impact on their lives

Bridges span the currents of Jewish life.

Bridges...

...between day and night.

...between kodesh and chol.

...between tamei and tahor.

But there’s one bridge that no Jew should cross alone.

The bridge between Life and Death, This World and the Next.

On that last bridge, stand the Chevra Kaddisha.

Three women share how they began doing the holy work of the Chevra Kaddisha, its impact on their lives, and the awesome privilege of participating in the ultimate chesed

One Step Closer

Mrs. Deena Abraham

Chevra Kaddisha of South Bend, Indiana,  27 plus years

T

he beginning of the year was the beginning of my journey.

I was in my twenties, married with a few little children, and life was filled with the typical chaos you’d expect in a young Jewish family. Months raced by, and I struggled to keep up — until Elul. A rare moment of peace revealed one troubling thought: What had I accomplished this past year? I was the same as the year before, and it was discouraging. I wanted something to add meaning to my hectic days. Hashem gave me the idea to take on something new, not a chumra or a mitzvah I was already doing, but something transformative. But what?

Not long after Succos, I was having my wisdom teeth out, so we stayed at my parents for Shabbos. While I endured surgery, my mother took my son to school. A nonreligious woman dropping off her kids told my mother that her grandmother had just passed away. The taharah needed to be arranged.

“I can’t get enough women to do a taharah,” my mother said when she returned. “I need to go. I feel bad, but can you cook for Shabbos?”

The revelation was brilliantly blinding. This was the mitzvah I was looking for. This was going to be my contribution to the community. I was young to be involved in taharos, but I accepted the responsibility.

At the time, I’d never been to a taharah, although I grew up surrounded by it. My mother, born and raised in South Bend, was part of what was then an elderly community. Her great-aunt was on the chevra kaddisha committee and was desperate for assistance. Squeamish and uninterested, my mother kept offering excuses: “I’m expecting/nursing/busy.” Years later, the wall of excuses crumbled, but the need was still there. My mother was frightened, but shouldered the responsibility, eventually taking charge of the entire operation, alongside my father. “Chevra Kaddisha” was part of everyday conversation, and Shabbos or Yom Tov meals were occasionally interrupted by funeral home personnel ringing our bell on days when the calendar indicated we couldn’t answer the phone.

My mother never asked me to be part of that world. I, sensing her anxiety surrounding her role, didn’t volunteer.

But it was time.

I didn’t know what to expect with my first taharah. Nervous, excited, and curious, I set foot on the bridge that spans worlds. I didn’t know the nifteres, but I knew her daughter, and her grandsons attended the local Jewish school.

“Just watch,” the other ladies told me, the wide-eyed first-timer. The women gently cleansed and prepared the nifteres, the whispers of their tefillos filling the silence. One of them showed me how to tie the knots on the tachrichim, the burial shrouds, and I followed her instructions. They lowered the woman into her coffin, and asked her for mechilah.

It was… beautiful.

Even now, I feel chills thinking of the first time.

It was the first of many taharos.