From the Editor: May Their Memory Be A Blessing

Charlotte Jewish News June 2021

Shira Firestone, Editor CJN

Yesterday morning when I came to work, the sun was shining. As the morning progressed, feathery, milky-white clouds gave way to something more foreboding. A few hours later and my phone was shrieking an emergency warning, and before I knew it we were sheltering-in-place for protection from a (weak) tornado. With the all clear, I went back to my office and looked out the window to find the sun breaking through the clouds again. Just like that. I’ve been paying attention lately to events that seem to be opposition. To sun and storms. To beginnings and endings. To birth and death. One day I witness

people venture out for the first time in months, like crocuses tentatively poking through the ground in recognition of the promise of spring. I join in the excitement and optimism. The next, I wake up to news of Meron or of rockets pummeling Israel. In April, our community mourned the loss of those closer to home. (Read tributes to Audrey Madans on pages 8 and 24 and Fred Shporer on page 12.)

It was while contemplating these losses that I participated in the South Jewish Roots: Charlotte Heritage Tour, a program of the Stanley Greenspon Center for Peace and Social Justice at Queens University of Charlotte. One of the most memorable stops on the tour was The Hebrew Cemetery. Rabbi Judy Schindler, Susan Jacobs, and Roz Cooper told stories of the many individuals buried there, individuals who have left an indelible mark on the Charlotte Jewish community — from the Rintel family in the 1870s to Moses Richter, the “Peach King,” who died in 1969. (Read the article about the generations of the Rintel family on page 17.)

While standing by the headstone of one of these Jewish founders of Charlotte, Rabbi Schindler asked us if we knew why Jews place stones on the headstones of their loved ones. In answer to her own question, she shared a poem she had just written.

Stones and Tears by Rabbi Judy Schindler

As Jews, we carry not flowers, but stones to the cemetery. Flowers are beautiful but death is not

so we bring stones so as to be realists - so as not to gloss over the pain of death.

Our hearts are still torn – even as the years and decades may dull the searing sting. Each stone holds stories –

of a parent’s or grandparent’s love for their child or grandchild tragically stolen from this world in the wrong order,

turning their lives upside down in a way that it may one day be better, but never completely right.

of a spouse losing their soul mate and best friend a bond built over decades suddenly broken leaving the living with a desperate longing, half their life and half of themselves feels gone.

Stones marking friendships that sustained, parents who unconditionally loved, mentors who inspired, leaders who awed,

humble people who loved and lived their best lives. Stones hold tears. Of broken hearts. Of broken families. Of broken lives. Yet stones can become smooth and grief can soften.

We leave the stones and we live.

We do not bring flowers but stones to the cemetery.

Stones always remain, as does our love.

We were then invited to take some time to wander the cemetery on our own. With Rabbi Schindler’s poem fresh on my mind, I crouched down to more closely appreciate one of the headstones covered with these symbols of both tears and everlasting love. And as I stood up to rejoin the group, my eye was drawn toward something just on the other side of the headstone that I hadn’t noticed before — a crocus — poking out of the ground. Life and birth — here on the grounds of the cemetery.

Soon we will begin to take off our masks and hug again. But the optimism and joy that come from this renewal don’t diminish the difficult losses in the Jewish community. The memory of those we have lost will be for a blessing. When we hug again, our hugs will be both to celebrate and to comfort. Shalom is more than a greeting, and it means more than peace. It also means wholeness and completeness. There cannot be wholeness if we discard one part of our experience in favor of the other. In these days to come, may we all experience Shalom.

Shira