Life is for the Living

One afternoon when I was in my early twenties, I was sitting with my dad by his and my mom’s townhome pool in Scottsdale, Arizona, lamenting over the fact that I wouldn’t be able to make it back to Minnesota for my best friend’s grandfather’s funeral. I felt awful about this. But I’ll never forget the way my dad looked me straight in the eye, and said so matter-of-factly, “Marissa, what matters is how you’ll love and support your friend after her loved one passes. And the best way to honor those who have passed is to keep on living our own lives here on Earth. Life is for the living.” 

He was so insistent on this that it seemed odd to me that I’d never heard him say it before – or maybe he had and, true to my teenage and twenty-something self, I’d simply ignored it – but in that moment, his words hit home hard. 

At the time, I remember thinking this statement seemed so uncaring and harsh – completely offensive to the dead as well as to those mourning them. But over time, especially as I began to lose more people in my life – my father included when I was just 27 – the notion that “life is for the living” began to feel less cruel and make so much more sense. 

What I think he meant, or at least what I’ve come to understand this to mean, is that we cannot let ourselves – our spirit or life force – die along with those who pass. Even after those we love leave this world, we must continue to live our lives, show up, and contribute to our communities in meaningful ways. 

As I delved further into this idea, I realized that it’s a very Jewish one. Recently I was researching whether Jews believe in an afterlife, and while some certainly do, the broader viewpoint is that our focus should be on how we live our lives in the here and now – how we treat others, engage in acts of kindness, and service, and who and how we love here on earth.  

Very recently I lost my mother, and now, with both parents gone, I feel somewhat lost… as though the anchors of my life, and sources of unconditional love and support, have been ripped away. Almost like I’m free-falling through life with no sense of direction, and no security net to soften a hard landing. It’s interesting, no matter how old a person gets, having parents – at least good, loving, kind parents – makes you feel safe and like you always have a place and purpose in the world. Without them, even at the age of 44 and with a family of my very own, it’s easy to feel disoriented and displaced. 

But, even as my mom passed, and I was right there with her when she died, I could hear my dad’s words echo loudly in my mind: “Life is for the living. You cannot stop living just because we have. You must go on. You have things to do, a family to raise, people who love and count on you. You do have a purpose and you do have direction. You’re on the right path.” 

It was instantaneous. At that moment, my immense grief mixed with a strong sense of peace because I could still hear him and heed this lesson, which I felt deep in my bones was true, and maybe the same would be true with my mom.  

This brings me to something else that offers me peace through my grief. I have a strong sense that a part of us – our soul, essence, or whatever one chooses to call it – lives on. While our bodies decompose, our energy cannot. 

The idea that my parents, and everyone we lose along the way, isn’t lost to us forever, is a deeply comforting one. Perhaps they are still quite near, albeit in a different form, cheering us on and offering support in quieter ways.

Since the loss of my parents, I notice signs all the time – perhaps these are simply everyday things that I attribute nonsensical meaning to, but quite honestly, it doesn’t matter. They feel like hugs and high-fives from my mom and dad, and fill me with joy and hope. 

Whether it’s the tree my siblings and I planted in honor of our dad at our cabin that just happened to grow five branches – one for each of his five kids; or back in 2016 when a weeks-long deflated balloon suddenly floated up to my bedroom where I’d been panicking about the impending birth of my twins; or when I noticed I was behind an EMBERS license plate at a stop sign (my dad co-founded Embers Restaurants); or just the other evening when I saw two license plate numbers I’d been hoping to see since my mom’s passing: “143” (numerical reference for “I love you” between me and my mom) and “430” (my mom’s birthdate). Signs or not, these events touch my heart and soul in significant ways. 

I’m not sure this belief in signs or spirit is particularly Jewish, but what I do know is that it helps me heal, and allows me to continue to feel connected to the loved ones I have lost. And it doesn’t take me away from this world. Quite the opposite, it helps me go on and live more fully and vibrantly in the present. 

The night my mom passed, though we knew it was imminent, my girls were devastated. They have each grieved and mourned Grammy in their own ways, continuing to ask questions about her life, where she is, and talk about how much they miss her. One night before bed, my 8-year-old daughter, Grace, said the most amazing thing: “Mommy, I just think Grammy is on a very long vacation with Papa Hank. And that doesn’t make me sad. That makes me happy!” 

Tears rolled down my face as she said this. Not the sad kind – the happy, joyful kind. 

“Yes!” I responded. “That’s exactly what I think too. And how beautiful that Grammy and Papa Hank are together again!”

Grace’s twin, Mila, began smiling big now too. It was clear she liked this idea, too. “Maybe they’re on a beach together holding hands,” She offered. 

I nodded in agreement. “Yes, that’s exactly where they would be… holding hands on a beach, watching the beauty and miraculousness of a pastel-colored sunset.”

When I was a little girl my dad and I used to sit together in the yard at our cabin, just slightly back from the lake’s edge where his tree now resides, and watch the sun go down. “Look at this stunning mix of colors,” he’d say. “How can people say there’s no G-D? This is all the proof I need to know that there’s a G-D.” My eyes wide with wonder, I’d always nod in agreement. 

And today, as I sit here and write these words, even through my grief and loss, I still know this to be true. And I can hear him say, as though he’s right here with me, “Marissa, what matters is how our family will love and support each other now that your mom and I are both gone. And the best way to honor those who have passed – me and your mother included – is to keep living your own lives. You, your siblings, your children… Please remember that life is for the living. “Be present in the here and now, love big and with your whole heart, and give this life all you’ve got. And know that we are still always with you.” 

Marissa Bader is a writer and children’s book author with a background in mental health. Her books, The Only Me, Stella’s Brave Voice, and Petunia the Perfectionist are inspired by her three daughters, a set of twins and a singleton, and promote confidence, courage, and self-acceptance in kids. Marissa also enjoys writing personal essays and articles about mental health and parenthood. Her work has appeared in Psychology Today, HuffPost Parents, Time Out New York, and more. Marissa resides in Minneapolis with her family, and when not writing, can often be found drinking coffee and having dance parties. To learn more about Marissa and her books, or to schedule her for an author visit, head to her website at MarissaBader.com