What it would it take to fully allow ourselves to, say, practice the art of something like Surrender and Trust--on an ongoing basis? What it would it take to remain married to them? And what it would take to let go of having things be a certain way so that we are comfortable?
Can a gentile say Kaddish? Is it blessing enough to say it only once, at the burial? And what if the minyan -- the traditional gathering of at least ten Jewish men required to say Kaddish -- is neither Jewish, nor 100 percent male?
Along the road somewhere, deep into the night, I began to reflect on why it was so important for us to be there. Why were we making such an effort to see someone who would neither know we were there, nor have any chance of speaking to us? Was there any logic to it?
A typical 10-acre patch of cemetery ground contains enough furniture-grade lumber to construct 40 houses, nearly 1,000 tons of steel, 20,000 tons of concrete, and enough embalming fluid to fill a small backyard swimming pool.
You might take solace in the fact that when you die, your days of polluting the planet are over. But the truth is that the method you choose to dispose of your mortal remains has more of a deleterious impact on the environment than you might think.
The Veterans Administration offers a number of burial and memorial benefits to veterans if their discharge from the military was under conditions other than dishonorable -- which will need to be verified.
"'Til death do us part," that age-old marriage vow, has always sounded a little, well, non-committal to Confucian ears. In Vietnam, for instance, where I come from, death is not the end of relationships, it only deepens them.
After a person dies, we clearly need to make decisions regarding final disposition, for public health reasons as well as closure for the family and community. But what happens when the remains are those of a person believed to have committed a horrific, recent crime?