Rabbi Chaya Gusfield

Rabbi Chaya Gusfield, Jewish Renewal, rabbi, spiritual director, chaplain

Writings on Suicide


Filed Under: Chaplain Reflections, Grief Writings, Healing, Kaddish Musings, Prayer, Reflections on Love, Torah/Life Writings, Writings on Suicide
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Celebrating Rabbinic Ordination

This is the drash (sermon) I gave at my rabbinic ordination in January, 2006.  It is still relevant today. As I celebrate my 16th year as a rabbi, I share this with you.  The Torah portions mentioned were read in synagogues during the prior two weeks during 2021/5782.

In this week’s Torah portion, Vayechi, Jacob blesses his son Joseph, by giving Joseph’s sons Maneshe and Ephraim a blessing.  He says “y’varech et hana’arim v’yikare b’hem shmi v’shem avotai avraham v’yitzchak .” (Genesis 48:16)  “Bless the young ones, may MY name be called through them and in the name of my forefathers Abraham and Isaac”

Simply stated, “May the memories of the ancestors be upon them as a blessing.”

We also see in Shmot, next week’s parashah, God says to Moses, “Ze shmi l’olam, v’zeh zichri l’dor dor.”(Exodus 3:15)   “This shall be My name forever.  This is my memorial from generation to generation.”

Once again, the name is used for a blessing.

In our tradition, we say of loved ones who have died, “Zichronam livracha” “May their memory be a blessing.”

Sometimes we say, “alav or aleha shalom”…May peace be upon him or her.

This is one of our most precious meditation practices.  When we mention the dead and stop to say zichrono livracha, or aleha shalom, we have the opportunity to continue our conversations with them, to receive blessing, and to offer them blessing, through the process of remembering them.

One day, I received an unexpected call from someone I didn’t know from New York who was trying to reach someone else at Kehilla Community Synagogue and stumbled upon my name and number in the process.  She told me that she knew my family from when I was a child.  My whole family.  And then she said, “I knew your sister Julie, zichrona livracha.” She said that they were the same age.  It made me stop.  The fact that she said her name and then followed it by zichrona livracha took my breath away.  I don’t believe I had ever heard anyone say Julie’s name with that blessing before.  I asked myself, what was the blessing that I was suppose to receive by remembering her in this moment?  I thought about it for many days.  What is the blessing?  My sister died a tragic death and for most of my life remembering her did not always feel like a blessing.  It was a difficult memory.  It brought great pain and suffering to our family.

I suspect that there may be people in your families who have died for whom remembering them wouldn’t always feel like a blessing.  And yet, our tradition asks us to remember them as a blessing EVERY TIME we mention their name.  Is this a mean trick–a way to ignore reality?  I believe it offers us an opportunity.  An opportunity for healing.

Reb Marcia invites us to see a bracha (a blessing) as the process of humbling ourselves by bending the knees (birkayim), reaching into the pool (breycha) and  experiencing the fountain of blessings as ENDLESS POSSIBILITIES.

Zichrona livracha –“may her memory be for endless possibilities”.  Whether you are the survivor of someone who experienced a tragic death, whether you have only difficult feelings about the person who died, or whether all you can remember are sweet moments, by saying zichrono livracha, we open the door to endless possibilities.  To anger, radical amazement, deep grief, a softening of the belly, the warmth of our heart, deep humility.  The key is that there are endless possibilities…The door is open to those who have died, and to our own healing process.

“Zecher tzaddik livrecha l’chayei haolam haba” “Remember this good person for a blessing for life in the world to come.”  By saying this expression when we remember someone who has departed, we send blessings to them-endless possibilities-in the world they inhabit.

We come together today in sacred community, a day filled with many brachot, many blessings.  A day that offers us endless possibilities from the deep pool of blessing.

Please join me in dipping into that pool by bringing into your heart and mind someone in your life who has died, to remember them for a blessing of endless possibilities.

The door is open to continue your conversation with them.  We may think we know what this conversation should be, but just for today, just for today, allow the conversation to arise on its own-in the quiet and sacredness of this community.

Zecher tzaddik livracha   —  May their memories bless our lives….

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Filed Under: Grief Writings, Healing, Reflections on Love, Writings on Suicide
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Safety Box

After the vaccine, we slowly begin to engage in a list of “safer” activities, previously postponed.

A dentist appointment, getting hearing aids, a gathering at the house.

I walk  to the bank to retrieve the thumb-drive. Photos of my parents who have been dead for several years.

My ancestors speak to me there in that small, windowless room, in the back of the bank.

Just me and the long, metal box. And their voices.

They surprise me. They demand something of me.

They grab, grasp, reveal.

They confess, plead, regret.

They celebrate, invite, even sing.

“Listen to the voices speaking from the box,” they ask.

Two green jade necklaces laying silently on top of crumpled envelopes. Gently welcoming me inside.

A handwritten letter from a man grieving the lack of his integrity. The friends he lost because of his lies.

The 80th birthday celebration invitation-a photo of when young dad was in the army.

The black and white folded form ketubah*-with Hebrew names I never knew.

The letter from my older sister: the last words she left us before she took her life. The cry of her desperate 21 year old  handwriting on a small piece of yellow lined paper.

Her words drip with history and detailed planning.  How much she misses us and how sorry she is. I feel her love for each one of us; sister, brother, mother, father. And the regret for her life.

She decided to die before she was called home.  Or maybe she was called, and we just can’t understand. We always call her Julie, but she signs the paper left on the bed-stand in a motel room with the name Julia.

My grandmother’s three thimbles that helped sew those marvelous creations.  Satin, velour, beaded dresses, and jackets with padded shoulders and intricate buttons. Oh how I miss her warm, rocking lap.

My mother’s rushed and excited note to her parents, conveniently saved in their wedding announcement. “Darlings, you won’t believe what I have to tell you!”.  (“Don’t forget my handwriting” mom whispers to us across time.) 

After dementia wouldn’t let go, fifty announcements of their new address carefully designed with loving photos, colorful hope, saturated with grief. Stuffed into envelopes ready to go.  Never mailed.

Silver dollars saved for decades from every Chanukah or special occasion. How many hands touched these coins?

The birth certificates of those I never knew.

The court decree of the Guzuvsky name-change to Gusfield. Running from anti-semitism.

Why do they call it a safety deposit box? It takes my breath, squeezes my throat, and tears me open with aching connective tissue.

It’s not a safe box.  Let’s call it an invitation from the beyond.

 

*Ketubah is the Jewish marriage document


Filed Under: Grief Writings, Healing, Reflections on Love, Writings on Suicide
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Stories Hide

Stories hide.  They stay quiet, listening for the perfect moment to be told.

Sometimes they sneak out of the mouth when no one is looking and you can feel all the breath in the room stop, and there is quiet.  Exquisite quiet.

Sometimes the story hides until a sudden moment of bravado and is offered with a flair.

Sometimes a story must be coaxed out of you, even though no one is really listening. Or cares.

I saw him walking down the street. All of his belongings on his body, limping with shoes that had many stories of where they had walked. Sad shoes.

Or maybe that was just my story.  Maybe the shoes had a story of celebration and resilience.  I can’t know until I listen deeper.

Stories hide.

Like the one about my mother playing tennis and me running after the tennis balls, or about my brother and why he always hums.  I’m still waiting for those stories to come forth with details that will awaken the senses.

Stories hide for a reason. Maybe we can’t hear them yet. Although we act like we can.

Today’s story is about a man who decided to die at age 34. He decided, he did it, and he’s gone from this life.  There are many parts of the story that are still hidden from those who loved him.  The story of mental illness has been hidden for years.  The powers that be still don’t know how to heal this illness and yet they keep trying.

Today’s story is about the deer that pranced across the field in the very wet fog, grazing on their breakfast.  Or maybe they don’t have breakfast.  They just eat.

The story for today is about the memory of smell. Fried eggs and toast.  60 years later I still love fried eggs and toast. And the smell.

A story about the red pencil writing this. Or maybe it’s about memory.   I suddenly notice that this red pencil, not very sharp, with a very dead eraser has the name of my close friend’s son imprinted on it.  I don’t know why I have this pencil, or when it was given to me.  I smile to think of him. I will give him a call. Because of this red pencil.

A story about loneliness. My mother would say, “if you are cold, you can always sit on your hands. And if you are lonely, know that God loves you.”

Stories hide, listening for the moment to come forth.

Today’s story is about a young man who died unexpectedly.

His ashes arrived home in a box.

Now surrounded by love and compassion. Ashes, compassion, impermanence.

The stories of love and heartbreak, pencils, and smells continue, unfolding, emerging, as is safe.

Stories hide.  They stay quiet, listening for the perfect moment to be told.


Filed Under: Grief Writings, Healing, Prayer, Writings on Suicide
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You’ve Had Days Like This

 

You’ve had days like this, days you thought you just might not survive without 3 naps or a piece of chocolate cake with ice cream, and then more ice cream.

Days where when you woke up you wondered where you were and when you found out, you wished you had the superpower of time travel, or space travel.  You just couldn’t bear it.

You’ve had days like this where the sun shone exactly how you needed it, not too much for you or your seedlings or your tomatoes, and not so little you had a chill.

You’ve had days like this where you walked up that hill and back and barely noticed how hard it was. Like a gazelle. Yes, you are a gazelle.

You’ve had days like this where every message on your phone or email was a reminder that we will all die and that some die sooner than others.

Some suffer so much they go back to bed, forever, leaving such a hole, such a hole in the hearts of their families. In the world.

You’ve had days like this where food tastes like what you imagine heaven would taste like and your garden smells like the Garden of Eden. And your neighbors, your annoying neighbors, feel like family and your car is your best friend.

You’ve had days like this, where the water comes out of the kitchen sink faucet and it is your complete prayer for the day, or is it praise? You’ve had days where you can’t decipher the difference between praise and prayer.

You’ve had days like this where prayer is just words and praise feels like someone else’s.

You’ve had days like this where the quiet is heart breaking and deliciousness in the same moment. Where a sigh is a sigh, and then it becomes song.

Where the floor under your feet hug you, support you, not letting you fall.

You’ve had days like this where the protests inspire, stretch and awaken.

You’ve had days where the fear is so big it’s hard to even talk about or people will think you are paranoid.  Maybe you are.

You’ve had days like this, where you think you are done, you’ve completed the work, and then you keep going.

You think you are done, there is nothing else, no new offerings, no new deployments. Nothing. And you wake up and you know where you are, and you get up and take a shower.

You eat a nectarine

A sweet nectarine

You’ve had days like this.


Filed Under: Grief Writings, Healing, Writings on Suicide
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50 years later- two takes

I

Since you died nothing has changed

1.People who struggle with their demons still do.

2.There still is no good treatment for many mental health conditions.

3. There still is regret for how you died.

4. There still is anger at the way some people just can’t be saved.

5. I still look at your last drawing-human shadows dancing.

II

Since you died nothing has changed.

People who struggle with their demons, still do.

There still is no balm for them. No doctor, no therapist, no hospital for the ones who stay up all night boxing.  There is no hope for many.

There is still anguish for your life and for your death.

Lamentations become the air we breathe. The anger rises up, squeezes forth.

Some people just can’t be saved, no matter the courage.

Still, some will die like you. Alone in a hotel room, found by a stranger.

Hanging on the wall is the last drawing you made-blue faceless human beings dancing in shadows

50 years, nothing has changed.


Filed Under: Healing, Prayer, Writings on Suicide
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The Voices

The tears came quite unexpectantly

Between us, between the pain, across decades of life

On an empty BART train on the last day of the year.

“Will you please ask the voices inside my head to stop talking to me, it’s very upsetting” he said.

“Of course” I said, and I did.

I pleaded that they leave him be, this young man

who was being tortured by voices.

And yet, they began again. He yelled at them to give him peace. He screamed and screamed and then was filled with regret for disturbing.

“I am so sorry, it is so uncomfortable!” he said.

“I know. It is ok….” I said.  I didn’t want to feed the voices.

My heart joined his and I looked deeply into his scared eyes, not knowing what would come out of my mouth, out of my heart.

“You are going to be ok.  You will.” I said.  I really didn’t know how he would be ok, or why I would say that, but my soul was drawn to comfort, to reassure, to soften the voices.

He blessed me for showing up. We smiled. I cried at what a brave man he was, encountering the voices alone.  For those few minutes, I joined him.  I cried for all those I have known living with voices who try to cause harm. And often succeed.

Blessings to this sweet man on his journey.  With every smile and kindness he encounters, may the voices slowly grow fainter and fainter.

I wish it was that easy.


Filed Under: Grief Writings, Prayer, Writings on Suicide
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A Prayer for Those Left Behind After The Suicide of a Loved One*

May the One who blessed our ancestors, Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, Sarah, Rebecca, Rachel and Leah and all those who came after them, bless those of us living in the shadow of the valley of death, left behind because of the suffering of a dear soul who took their own life. 

May our connection with the One who is the Source of All Blessing, continually remind us that our memories of our loved ones are for a blessing. Zichronam Livracha. May we be able to look at their life and not only their suffering and death.  May we learn to understand in time that memories of their life bless our days. May we know through our memories of their life, they too, are blessed wherever they rest. May they be protected by the God of Compassion.

When the memories of their life’s suffering come to us, give us the strength and courage to feel compassion and love for them. Help us feel the companionship of families, friends, ancestors and the Divine Presence to protect and nourish us in times of distress. May we find the healing possible through sharing our whole experience with others, including feelings of regret and shame, relief and anger, grief and sorrow, unanswered questions, and deep love.

Source of All Life, surround us with grace and spread over us a sukkat shalom, a shelter of peace and wholeness.  And let us say Amen.

*Last week was the yarzheit of my sister’s death, Julie Zoe Gusfield. May her memory be a blessing.  I wrote this several years ago and am posting this in her memory.


Filed Under: Chaplain Reflections, Healing, Writings on Suicide
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The Fruit Cup

He was struggling to open his fruit cup.   Then I struggled to open it. I wondered why hospitals give people, who are often weak, difficult things to open, possibly reminding them of what strength they have lost. I was determined to get that damn fruit cup open so he could eat.

Once he was eating, I said,” how are you today?”  He replied, “I have used up all my courage.” Tears began to roll down his face.  There was a moment of silence between us.   A silence of understanding.  I received his words and so much more.  I didn’t know much of his story yet, but it didn’t really matter.  His heart was open, broken, and my heart immediately joined his.

And then he whispered, “I am just starting to get some of it back.”

Many times I don’t think I can handle one more piece of difficult news, one more bureaucratic screw up, one more uncertainty, or even one more package I can’t open. Fruit cups, printer ink, and especially medications.

After I give up, I find my resilience, put on my big girl pants, and take a deep breath.  I think I have used up all my courage, but my breath doesn’t seem to get the memo and I keep breathing.

 

When you feel that your courage is all used up, may you notice that you are still breathing.

And let us say

Amen