“Alright, kids! How about we head to the cemetery to clean some gravestones?” Not exactly my words, but you get the idea.
Last Sunday morning, I dashed into Target, weaving through folks picking up their morning coffee before service, and headed straight for the cleaning supplies. I grabbed two buckets, three scrub brushes, and a pair of rubber gloves. Sure, I could have prepared ahead of time, but let’s be honest: my heart is often in the right place, but my mind sometimes lags behind.
I have a fondness for cemeteries—not because I’m drawn to death, horror, or ghosts, but because I appreciate the stones, the names, and the stories they tell. Cemeteries feel like neighborhoods, just with residents who happen to be deceased.
When I was six, my grandmother passed away. I stayed back at home while the family attended the burial. The most vivid memory I have is of a massive fruit basket being brought into the house, adorned with a shiny bow. To me, death was associated with fruit baskets and absence.
As a child, I fancied that my grandmother’s spirit visited me at night, sitting at the foot of my bed. I even named my daughter after her.
During high school, I babysat for a family whose backyard bordered a Jewish cemetery. Their yard was tiny, lined with low boxwoods, and beyond that lay headstones. The house was old, and at night, it creaked and groaned, sending shivers down my spine. I remember calling my mom to check the house on several occasions. Eventually, I reassured myself: the cemetery was Jewish, I was Jewish, and surely the spirits wouldn’t haunt one of their own. I felt safe.
Death wasn’t a topic frequently discussed in my household, which, looking back, only made it more frightening. I decided when I had children that I would approach the subject openly. I wouldn’t glorify it nor dwell on it excessively, but I wouldn’t avoid it either.
Every religion offers its own perspective on death and the afterlife, and everyone has their unique beliefs. When I talk to my kids about death, we explore various beliefs and ideas. My daughter, for instance, currently leans towards reincarnation, which feels fitting for someone who has always seemed wise beyond her years.
Ultimately, I believe there’s no definitive answer to what happens after we die. If we lead good lives, and there is an afterlife, we won’t need to worry about our fate. My guiding principle has always been about living fully in the present. A wise friend from my youth once said, “Live while you live, and then die and be done with it.” That sentiment resonates deeply.
I’m not overly concerned about my own end. (Should I opt for burial or cremation? Perhaps a natural burial or even a ceremonial pyre? Maybe I should ask for a flash mob to perform my favorite dance routine? All valid considerations, but ultimately irrelevant since I won’t be around to care.)
Years ago, my husband and I visited Berlin and made a point to see a Jewish cemetery in East Berlin. It was vast, with headstones that had shifted and settled over time. Many were cloaked in moss and lichen, a testament to the passage of time.
One tomb caught our attention—it belonged to a prominent family, and the large granite slab was cracked down the middle, with a tree growing from it. The family name? Baum, which means tree in German. The scene felt both eerie and beautiful, a perfect representation of nature’s reclaiming process.
With our supplies in hand, we made our way to the cemetery, joining my kids’ Sunday school group. The rabbi discussed the mitzvah of caring for the graves during the period between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur.
Though my family doesn’t have graves in this area, some attendees did, and they shared stories about their loved ones. Then we spread out. My daughter focused on a stone that caught her eye, while my son began with the headstone of his Hebrew tutor’s family.
It was rewarding work—revealing names and dates, making the stones legible. Do the deceased care about our efforts? Perhaps not, but it’s a comforting thought that someone might visit and see that their loved ones were remembered and cared for.
Grief, death, and memory are often fragmented, each of us carrying our unique pieces of history and emotion. Caring for others, both in life and in death, helps us gather those fragments. Together, we create a tapestry of meaning and love—shared rather than owned.