One of my pet peeves about primary grade education is the inordinate focus on the self.  In an effort to strengthen student self esteem, many teachers hand out fill in the blank pages calling for the following information: “I am special because…. My favorite game to play is….. My favorite food is…….” These worksheets reflect the mistaken belief that focus on the self strengthens the sense of self.  The  preoccupation with meeting kids’ needs ignores the more crucial growth opportunity that comes from meeting the needs of others.

Our family got a big dose of setting aside the self for others this past fall when my friend Naomi’s mother died suddenly.  Losing her mother overnight was bad enough, but it was made even worse by the fact that the entire first floor of Naomi’s house was under renovation.  There was barely space to sit for breakfast much less sit shiva, the seven-day mourning period.  It was the most natural thing in the world to offer our home.  Naomi needed all of us and it was going to be a family effort to be sure our friends felt as at home as possible.  

As soon as word went out that the shiva  would occur at our house, friends began organizing meals.  Lynne showed up with lunch.  Nancy researched the custom of the meal of consolation offered to mourners upon their return from the cemetery. She arrived toting bagels, lentils and hard boiled eggs — all things round and reminiscent of the endlessness of life.  

Someone brought a bucket for water and a roll of paper towels so that when we returned from the cemetery we could wash our hands before entering the house.  This hand washing derives from the ancient practice of purification through washing after being in close contact with the dead.       

A friend and I covered the mirrors so that our friends would not have to be concerned with their appearance while in mourning.  Preparing this article, I learned other reasons behind the custom:  Since prayer services are held in the home it is forbidden to pray in front of a mirror.  Synagogues are not decorated with mirrors and even though no one would be praying in the dining room, hallway, or powder room, mirrors in the home are still to be covered.  

Right before the funeral, I went to get sodas and ice and left my friends to do what needed to be done in my kitchen. I marveled how the system was working.  Our individual selves no longer mattered.  We were interchangeable parts of a much greater whole.  It was as if all the gears were working in perfect harmony.  Is that what God is?  The situation when all things are in balance, humming upon the currents of a mitzvah,  that commanded action to repair the world?  

Each of us had our own challenges in having shiva  at our house.  My husband’s life has been woven with way too many deaths — father, aunt, and grandmother all within a six month span when he was ten.  Two favorite uncles within a year of each other.  His mother and a cousin within weeks of each other.  Having shiva  at our house was sure to push buttons of dormant pain.  

Our kids were troopers.  School had just started and my son was swamped with homework.  The third evening of having his home invaded by dozens of people, he grabbed his backpack, waved to us matter of factly and said he was heading up the street to study at a neighbor’s house.  A couple hours later he returned, chatted with the few remaining guests and cheerfully headed upstairs to bed.  In the midst of all this, our cat ran away and my daughter went into mourning herself.  But there were no tantrums, no fits of temper at the topsy turviness of the days.  I wasn’t expecting any, but looking back I am proud of how they rose to the occasion without a peep of resentment.  P.S.  The cat came back.

The hardest part for me was not the shiva  but the funeral.  I have always been terrified to take shovel in hand and heave dirt on the coffin below.  I’ve never been able to approach an open grave.  But watching Naomi, an only child,  stand up and throw the first shovelful of dirt onto her mother’s coffin,  I knew I couldn’t stand by and let her bury her mother alone. I saw the ritual for what it was: not something grim and macabre but the final kindness we offer a fellow Jew.  Helping to bury Mrs. Pinchuk was a small token of gratitude I could offer a woman who had raised the wonderful daughter who is now my friend.  I got in line.  

That’s what is missing from those mimeographed exercises in vanity — getting in line, taking one’s place in a community that is beyond one’s self.   That is one blank in our children’s development that needs filling big time. 

Mrs. Meme’s is the name of an Orange C ounty, Califoria daycare center. Is this merely the owner’s name? A sly play on the word “meme” which my trusty New Oxford American  Dictionary tells me is “an element of a culture or system of behavior that may be considered  to be passed from one individual to another by nongenetic means, especially imitation”? Or is it an ironic answer to the riddle: Where do Me Generation parents send their kids to daycare?  

While my children’s generation might have cut their pencils on those navel-gazing mimeographs, on the flip side of the sheet, giving back is second nature to them. These young people spend summers building habitats for the homeless; collecting blankets, food, toileetries and more for the needy; raising money and awareness for any number of  causes.  Perhaps instead of being doubly self-centered, the Meme generation will instead imitateå its parents’ ingenuity and dedication to helping others.

©2004, 2008