blogs/rabbi-huberman

One day in September, almost thirty four years ago, I received a call from my parents. "We've got some very bad news regarding Bubbie."

I shut my office door and sat down.

"It looks like your grandmother has an incurable cancer, and it's unlikely she'll live more than three to six months."

I swallowed hard. Bubbie Rivka was our family matriarch. My grandfather David, about whom you read two weeks ago, was the scholar of our family, but it was Bubbie who ran things.

Back then I lived in Fort McMurray, Alberta, Canada - thousands of miles west of my family in Ontario and Quebec. But my father had an idea.

"Your cousin Celia is getting married in November. Why don't you fly in and attend the wedding, and visit your grandmother while she is still able to see you?"

That's what I did.

But just days before our departure, my father phoned again. "It's not looking good," he said. "Bubbie has taken a turn for the worse. As soon as you land, go right over to see her."

I did. On that afternoon, just before Shabbat, in mid-November, I took my newborn daughter, Jessica, to visit my beloved grandmother at her apartment in suburban Toronto.

She rallied her strength, and handed a Cabbage Patch doll to her new great-granddaughter.

Hours later, she was gone.

Our family was heartbroken. We were in a daze. Her passing, even at the formidable age of 91, felt surreal.

But there was one more consideration.

Celia and Charlie's wedding was planned for that Sunday. Should the wedding be cancelled? Can you have a family funeral and a wedding on the same day? Would that be respectful? Would that be right?

Bubbie's rabbi weighed in