By Michelle Gruber

While waiting for my weekly hour of math tutoring to begin in tenth grade, I recall seeing an embroidered pillow in my math tutor’s home. It read, “A good friend walks in when the rest of the world walks out.” That phrase resonated with me more than any math formula, and to this day I still think of it.

In the last year, one of the hardest of my life, you would think that the phrase became my reality; in a way it has, but for some in the same circumstances, it hasn’t. At times I have seen and heard that your “good friends” are nowhere to be found when you need them most. And I’m sorry to say that it’s happening more often than it should in the frum community.

I won’t bore you all with the details of my life, but let’s just say that in the last year I have seen the best and worst in people. My mother passed away suddenly–and ten days later I gave birth to my first child. Here I was mourning my mother, and at the same time celebrating the birth of a child. I never imagined that this baby would be named after my mother.

While sitting shivah nine months pregnant, I was shocked by some of the words and phrases that came out of the mouths of some people who thought they were giving nechamah, comfort, to my family and me. While visiting with my father during shivah, an acquaintance of his approached me and my bulging stomach. I thought he would just recite the berachah “HaMakom yenachem . . .” and leave. No. He looked at me with pity in his eyes and said, “It’s a shame your mother will never see the baby.”

I answered, “She will see the baby.” I meant that my mother would be looking down from Shamayim at her new granddaughter. As if I were a simpleton and couldn’t grasp the fact that my mother had passed away, the man sat down next to me and said, “No, your mother died. She will never see the baby because she’s dead.”

I didn’t want to disrespect him, my father, or the situation, so all I said was, “Please say the berachah. I’m very tired.” After telling a friend of mine what this man said, she laughed and said she had a similar experience.

My friend told me a tale from when her family sat shivah for a brother who had passed away in his sleep. A woman from the community, who didn’t know the family well, loudly asked, “Why didn’t you take him to the doctor if you knew he was sick? Why didn’t you do anything to help him?” My friend’s brother had passed away in his sleep at the age of 22 complaining of nothing before he went to bed. His family didn’t know if he was suffering from some ailment he was keeping to himself or if something happened while he slept. My friend’s brother died peacefully, which is a berachah. My friend said that her mother didn’t know what to say to this woman.

Yet another friend told me that when she was sitting shivah for her father, she overheard a woman in the community tell her mother, “My husband died six years ago and it is still so painful every day. I feel like I can’t go on.” My friend told me that this was not what her mother needed to hear. She said her mother wanted to know that it may get easier with time and the pain may dull, although never go away. This woman lamented for the whole room to hear as if she were sitting shivah all over again.

One of my coworkers told me that when she was visiting a shivah home of mother whose toddler child passed away, others were trying to give the mother nechamah by telling over divrei Torah. The mother listened intently and told the women, “I really believe he was a tzaddik in another gilgul that had to complete his task here and was then taken.” According to my coworker, another woman answered the mother, “Or he could have been a rasha and needed to suffer and that’s why your child was so sick.” My coworker said that she and all the others in the shivah house got angry at the woman who said this. The mother was visibly upset at this statement and excused herself from the room.

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Why do people say such things at a shivah house? I was asked by a few friends, my coworkers, as well as others, to write about this topic. I am a social worker by trade, but I write books and articles in my spare time and I felt strongly that this issue had to be addressed. People mean well–I truly believe that–but they have to think when they are speaking with someone at a shivah house. They have to use seichel when addressing an avel whose loss and pain is still fresh and raw. Yes, it is awkward to start a conversation with someone sitting shivah, but people can’t just say the first thing that pops into their head. Where is the filter?

The person who told me that my mother would never see my daughter probably doesn’t even remember saying it, but I remember. I keep hearing him say it over and over, and it upsets me. As my husband told me, this man meant no harm and he wasn’t thinking. But you must be so careful how you speak with a yasom and almanah–orphan and widow. Treat them kindly. It says that Hashem defends them because they don’t have a defender; their parent/spouse is gone. Speak kindly to them.

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I also want to discuss what happens after shivah concludes and the sheloshim passes. What happens once the doors close and life continues? What happens to all the promises friends and family made that they will be there for you and to “just call” if anything is needed? I can’t tell you how strongly I feel about what I will write in the next couple of paragraphs. What angers me and disappoints me is that the more I speak with others, the more I find out that it is happening in every community everywhere. I want to scream, “Where is your bein adam l’chavero?” More than that, I want to ask people what they are thinking when they see a friend in need and, instead of helping, they ignore their friend and just continue living their own lives with their own family and schedules.

My parents were a social couple. Our Shabbos table was always filled with guests, whether it was singles who did not have a family of their own to share a meal with or longtime friends of my parents. My parents were part of a weekly Kiddush club, participated in social gatherings. Yet, at the end of the day, my father closes the door to his home and he is alone. Yes, I call him every day and invite him to my house every night for dinner and for Shabbos as well. My sister calls and speaks with him daily and they FaceTime (as my sister lives out of state), but the bottom line is that my father is alone.

From all the friends who graced our Shabbos table for years, who were invited into our house for Kiddush year after year, and those my parents would go out to dinner with or vacation with–where are they now? Where are they when my father needs his friends? When the life partner of someone passes away, where are the friends to help the surviving partner pick up the pieces and continue with life? Only two friends of my mother continuously call my father on a regular basis to try to raise his spirits and invite him over for a Shabbos meal. But where is everyone else?

During the summer, while walking with my husband, I saw one of my father’s longtime friends. He asked how my father was. My anger boiled over, but in a calm way I answered, “If you called, you would know how he’s doing.” This man was shocked that I said that. I continued: “You and my parents were friends for over three decades, yet when my father needs his friends the most, you are nowhere to be found. Is that right?” This man answered that he called my father once. I applauded this man for calling my father once, in all the time that my father had spent alone, and continued walking with my husband.

I am not here to write about my father and what my family is going through, or to speak about his friends. My point is to tell you, the readers, that I have done some research and spoken with over a dozen people while preparing to write this article. This is happening more often than we realize. Just the other day, I was speaking with a woman who told me that her mother frequently has to travel to Florida to help care for her sick parents. She said that when her mother is away for a couple of weeks at a time, her father hardly gets invited out by friends for a Shabbos meal or even receives a phone call from friends to check up on him to see if he needs anything.

Another friend who lost her mother a few years ago said that for the first few years hardly any of her father’s friends called or invited him anywhere. He felt forgotten. She said that it got so bad that her father moved to Florida, where he befriended a group of widowers. Now her father is bowling, playing poker, going out to dinner, watching movies . . . with his new friends, the widowers. He said that his story is the same story his new friends tell. In a nutshell: the wife passes away, friends say that they will invite him or call him, but they never do–or only rarely. These men can’t stay inside the rest of their lives. They must go on with life–a new type of life, but they can’t just sit around waiting to join their deceased spouse.

My friend and her siblings are upset that their father felt forced to move to Florida in order to have a social life. She used to see her parents on a weekly basis; now her children can only FaceTime with Zaidy, and she visits with her father four or five times a year. She misses her father. But she said that when it came down to it, she and her siblings weren’t enough to sustain her father in the Northeast. She said her father needed his friends, he needed a social life, and unfortunately his longtime friends had disappeared, so he was forced to make a new life for himself.

Plenty of widows and widowers move to Florida and seem to have an active social life and they are a support for each other. I think that is wonderful. But I ask, what happened to their friends they had for decades when they were a couple? Did those friends just forget about them? Yes, I realize that normally the wife is the more social partner, but once the wife passes, why have friends forgotten about the friend who is still living? It may just be my feeling, but I feel almost as if my parents “divorced” and my mother got to “keep” all the friends.

Someone told me that her father’s world was rocked when her mother died and the one thing that her father felt he would still have, besides his children, was the support of his friends. He mourned their loss as well when he saw that he was called less frequently and not invited to join in Shabbos meals when they knew he was all alone. She said that her father went through two losses, and each one hurt.

At the end of the day, words that aren’t backed up by action aren’t worth anything. How many people tell an avel when visiting a shivah house, “I’ll call you” or “We’ll have you over for a meal soon.” The words need to be followed by action! These people have just suffered tremendously and now they have to lose friendships as well? I don’t think the avel should have to call friends and ask, “Can I come for a Shabbos meal?” or “Hi, I just wanted to see how you’re doing. I haven’t seen you in a while.” My friend said that her father’s friends used to say, “If you want to talk, call me.” I see this happening with my father as well. When someone’s life is falling apart they have to call others to remind them that they are still around and need cheering up?

Don’t misunderstand my words; I am not giving mussar to my father’s friends or anyone else. I am merely telling you what is happening. Firstly, people are saying inappropriate things when visiting a shivah house. Again, it may be because it is an awkward situation, but many times I have sat next to an avel and have said nothing, allowing them to speak. They need nechamah, and if I can’t think of what to say, the gift of silence is golden. These people who truly do mean well don’t see the damage they are causing to the avel by saying something before fully thinking it through.

Secondly, why are people forgetting about friends that they have had for decades? Is it because they don’t want them to feel like a fifth wheel by inviting them to a meal where only couples will be present? Let the one who lost the spouse make the decision if they want to join their friends in such a setting; don’t decide for them. These people who lost their spouse aren’t thinking of how awkward their friends feel, but how left out, forgotten, and alone they are feeling.

I feel this is an issue that isn’t being addressed at all–not even by rabbanim. I can tell you of personal stories that were told to me of how rabbanim of shuls haven’t reached out to a longtime member who suffered a loss. Where is our bein adam l’chavero? We run to shiurim, we make sure we daven with a minyan, we keep kosher, and our Shabbos tables have the best meats and dips–but where is our bein adam l’chavero? How do we treat our friends when they need us most? Is this how you want to be treated by others? Is this how you want others to think of you–“I once had friends, but just when I needed them, they stopped calling.”

I am not here to give mussar. I just want to bring this issue that hasn’t been discussed into the light. There was a reason why I was asked by many to write about this issue–it is because they feel alone and they have seen with their own eyes what is happening to their parents.

A good friend walks in when the rest of the world walks out. Or do they?

Michelle Gruber is an LMSW and a lifelong Queens resident, guest lecturer, and author of the shidduch dating book “The Best of My Worst” and the children’s book “Where Has Zaidy Gone?” She can be contacted at bestofmyworst@hotmail.com.

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