Turning Pain into Blessings: a father and son discuss
a grandfather’s passing discussed by a father and son
What is eternity? How can sorrow and loss become an occasion for spiritual growth, a thankful awareness of enduring gifts and even an enhanced sense of connectedness between the generations? How does one both respect and soothe the grief of a child at the death of a grandfather and turn it into strength? One finds a way, as a son, for the need of strength oneself, and for the love of one’s own father and son.
Powerful moments, moments like the passing of a father etch the simplest words like light, like fire into the shadows of memory, the warm, rich ever-present shadows that feed what we are. Without memory, without bringing the soul’s candle-light to pain we are not human. The simplest phrase, like, “I have to tell you sad news” acquires a radiant gravity that makes time stand still, opening a window to eternity. The connection must be made. 
The teacher must master sorrow with love and whatever strength he can muster. Love includes hope, dedication and being fully present…
“Pop Pop died last night,” I told my son one recent morning, and tears filled his clear young eyes. Speaking quietly, with all the warmth in my voice I could bring I added, “It’s very sad but we’re lucky; I was lucky to have a father like him. You were so lucky to have a good grandfather for ten years, a grandfather who played ball with us and healed so many children” [my father was a pediatrician]. Now he’s not in pain anymore and he can always watch us and be happy when we’re happy.” I was holding my son’s hand as I spoke. “It’s not only memories; his spirit is in us and always has been in us ever since we were born. It’s like when we pray, ‘Blessed are You, L-rd our G-d and G-d of our fathers. The good power of his spirit is always with us.
And I know that is true. Because memories endure we endure as humane beings. “The might is eternal, L-rd, Who makes the dead live.”
Blessings and sorrow, blessings and burdens have a way of being mixed in challenging and miraculous ways. Repeated enforced separations, however hurtful or unjust can build a resilience to manage more ultimate separations, — if one can protect some time and places for the activities that express and build the love upon which a foundation can be laid that nothing can uproot.
But a good harvest requires preparation. For nearly a year before this passing, my son and I had closed our evenings together with prayers, always including the prayer for healing. “Heal us, O L-rd and we shall be healed; save us and we shall be saved. For You are our glory…” We have talked of the Book of Life and rejoiced in many activities and good memories, talking, wondering, smiling and sharing laughter at photos of still earlier years. We have drawn and always will draw on my father’s strength, even when he is not in our thoughts, when things are dark.
Retelling this experience cannot do it justice but I try to re-create some moments: how my son sat proudly beside my mom, my brothers and me as we recalled my father for several hundred family and friends; how he even more proudly the day before had told the Rabbi who would conduct the service how his Pop Pop taught him to row a boat, to play paddle tennis, catch salamanders and go on buried treasure hunts.
The evening after the ceremony, after the drive to the cemetery, after the service and shovelfuls of Jersey earth thick with drizzle sustaining and refreshing life, after hours of reminiscing with tearful and smiling family members, we say quietly on the bed, saying our customary prayers.
“Dad, when you say the healing prayer, make sure you say, ‘heal Sidney, son of Adel and Samuel’” [the names of my Dad’s parents], my son said. He was telling me that my father was still with us, and that we still want him healed; that we love him.
“What a good blessing you say, my boy,” I replied. “Pop Pop sure is smiling to hear your kindness and love.
My son looked up at the ceiling, smiled and waved: “Hi Pop Pop!” he called out. We teach and we learn.
What is it like for those who pass on to rest and reward? Whose deeds of faithfulness and loving kindness shine like a holy mountain when they are weighed in the balance? In a week of long drives and mandatory plane flights, of family gatherings and goodbyes, my son and I talked often of how Pop Pop’s spirit now is always with us, how he now is alive forever but free from the pain and weakness of the last year, again like he was a few years ago.
“Yeah,” agreed my son. “Even last year he played baseball with us when he was seventy-five. Lots of grandpas can’t do that.”
“You’re right son,” I answered. “How old do you think Pop is in heaven?”
“Oh, about twenty-five or thirty” came the reply, and I gladly entertained the idea.
“Wonderful, I agreed. “Pop’s like a young man but he knows about us and knows he will have a terrific grandson like you. How happy he must be.”
“And we’re happy too,” said my son. “’Cause he’s a great Pop!”
I suggested that eternity where Pop Pop now lives is like one long moment of relaxed happiness, that it includes and can see all of our millions of changing moments here on earth. After we talked, I reflected that those who love us desire our happiness and that as we respect them we owe them our best efforts always.
I take these thoughts me as a plane brings me back to Boston after yet another separation, another challenge to love and faith’s resilience. The pain of loss can remind us of how many gifts there are that merit thankfulness. I set these thoughts against regret and sorrow, the regrets that feed on sorrow…
They say separation is like dying: major cultural institutions then inflict death, they murder as part of the profitable routine functioning. Another time on that…
The need to acknowledge and honor the hereafter balances the need to cherish and rejoice in the love discovered and shared here and now. Thus the mixed lights of this world receive the pure light of the world to come. With effort and love, things grow a little clearer.
And in this clarity I recall a vision from last summer: my son and father rowing on a pond in Vermont. They are too far from shore for me to hear what they say, though I see they are rapt in conversation. They disappear around an islet, my son proudly rowing my father across the water.
Standing between those who have gone before and those who come after, perhaps we can change people and events a little for the good.
Original version published in Springfield Union News, 8-27-97