I’ve spent most of my life trying to make sense of things. Thinking about things, pondering, and getting everything together in my head.
But sometimes things don’t make sense.
Things crash into you like a comet from the sky and all you can feel is pulverized.
What does life look like now?
When the fire and the smoke and the dust and ashes clear, what does life look like now?
And just because they’re clearing for me on the outskirts, what about the people at ground zero?
Covered in dust and ashes, groaning under the weight of loss.
I feel like a roadside gawker, transfixed by the accident.
I can’t look away, but I feel so helpless.
When his three friends saw Job from a distance, they scarcely recognized him. Wailing loudly, they tore their robes and threw dust into the air over their heads to show their grief. Then they sat on the ground with him for seven days and nights. No one said a word to Job, for they saw that his suffering was too great for words.
I know that the suffering is too great for words now for some of you.
And there are no words that will make any of this make any sense.
Because sometimes things don’t make sense.
Things crash into you like a comet from the sky and leave you desolate.
So all I can do is journey back to you from where I am, journeying back to join you in the dust and ashes.
No platitudes or empty words or anything else.
But I do promise to sit shiva with you.
To not speak, but to simply be present (in spirit and later in person) and offer the only words I have.
I’m so incredibly sorry.
This is so unfair.
I love you.
Ha-makom yenakhem etkhem b’tokh sh’ar a’vaylay.
May God comfort you among the other mourners.