The Final Act of Loving Kindness
by Rochel U. Berman
copyright 2004

The three short obituaries in the newspaper spoke about a loving, adoring child who would be missed by her family, her friends and her community. As I read the notices, my heart went out to the family that mourned her. Although I did not know this child in life, I was to encounter her in death.

As a member of my synagogue's Chevra Kadisha (burial society), I received a phone call at my office early in the day asking me if I was available that evening for a tahara, the ritual purification of a body prior to burial. The person calling was somewhat hesitant. This was an unusual case. The deceased was a nine-year-old girl, a victim of a fatal car accident.

Our Chevra Kadisha is comprised mostly of parents of young children. As the mother of two adult sons, I felt that the emotional trauma of laying this child to rest would be less intense for me than for the others. So, I immediately said, "yes," deferring the weekly laundry and a trip to the supermarket to another night.

We were greeted by the director when we arrived at the funeral home. As death is an everyday occurrence for him, his usual manner of dealing with us is factual and impersonal. On this occasion, however, the director's businesslike façade was broken. The death of a child so defies the reasonable order of things that the event, when it occurs, touches all those who come in contact with it. As he handed us the death certificate, he commented on the tragic ending of a young life.

Our route to the preparation room took us through the carefully appointed reception area and the mourners' lounge. My thoughts focused momentarily on the décor. Do the overstuffed sofas, heavy draperies and thick carpeting help absorb the grief of the mourners? Will the soft lighting serve to comfort the bereaved family of this young child?

The tahara room stood in sharp contrast: stark, cold, harshly lit and disorderly. In the center of the room stood a gurney on which the child lay covered with a fresh white sheet. We spent a few minutes organizing the space, thereby creating a sanctuary in which to perform this time-honored commandment.

Since an important aspect of respect for the dead is to perform the tahara without unnecessary delay, we worked quickly and methodically. We ritually washed our hands, put on gloves and surgical gowns and cut squares from a large sheet to cover the face and the genitals of the deceased. We then opened the child-sized casket, sprinkled earth from Israel on the bottom, laid out the tachrichim, the shrouds, and filled a bucket of water to wash the body. We moved about in silence, communicating only about the tasks at hand. While there are no rules about talking, idle chatter seems inappropriate. We wanted nothing to invade the sanctity of the moment.

Finally, it came time to examine the body. I have done innumerable taharot, yet I find that the act of uncovering the face of the deceased is always accompanied by apprehension. This time, the tension was further heightened because I knew that I would be confronted with the countenance of a child.

In the opening prayer, before the tahara begins, as advocates for the deceased we introduce her by name to the Almighty:

Master of the universe! Have compassion for Rebecca, daughter of Nachum, this deceased, for she is a descendant of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, your servants ... Through mercy, hide and disregard the transgressions of this departed. May she tread with righteous feet into the Garden of Eden, for that is the place of the upright, and God protects the pious.