Parashat Chayei Sarah – Presence That Remains

Recently, I attended the shiva for a young man in his twenties who had died tragically. His parents are friends of ours, and we were all heartbroken. I went hoping to offer some comfort, but faced with the magnitude of their loss, I struggled to know what to say. The usual words of consolation seemed inadequate. I was rendered speechless.

Parashat Chayei Sarah begins with a lesson in loss, but its name offers a different perspective, one that I came to appreciate in the face of sorrow.

וַיִּהְיוּ חַיֵּי שָׂרָה מֵאָה שָׁנָה וְעֶשְׂרִים שָׁנָה וְשֶׁבַע שָׁנִים שְׁנֵי חַיֵּי שָׂרָה׃

וַתָּמָת שָׂרָה בְּקִרְיַת אַרְבַּע הִוא חֶבְרוֹן בְּאֶרֶץ כְּנָעַן וַיָּבֹא אַבְרָהָם לִסְפֹּד לְשָׂרָה וְלִבְכֹּתָהּ׃

“Sarah’s lifetime was one hundred years, twenty years, and seven years; these were the years of Sarah’s life.

Sarah died in Kiriat-Arba, that is Hebron, in the land of Canaan; and Abraham came to eulogize Sarah and to weep for her” (Genesis 23:1–2).

The opening words, and the parashah’s namesake, lead with Chayei Sarah, “The Life of Sarah.” Yet the verses are announcing her death. Why begin a lesson in loss with words of life?

When someone who has lived a long life passes on, we spend much of the mourning period celebrating the time they had. In a way, this is what happens with Sarah. Her years were significant and consequential. She helped build a family and a future that would outlast her. Her story is woven into the covenant that Abraham would carry forward.

And so, while the parashah begins with Sarah’s death, the Torah is asking us to consider the life she led that will make her absence so prominent.

In the text itself, the verse contains another detail worth pausing over. When reading the words וְלִבְכֹּתָהּ, “and to weep for her,” in a Torah scroll or chumash, something immediately catches the eye: the word is written with a miniature כ kaf.

The small letter invites us to hesitate and consider Abraham’s mourning. To notice an unusual detail about the way Abraham responds to Sarah’s death. Here, again, is how the verse concludes:

וַיָּבֹא אַבְרָהָם לִסְפֹּד לְשָׂרָה וְלִבְכֹּתָהּ

“…and Abraham came to eulogize Sarah and to weep for her.”

We might expect Abraham to break down in tears upon hearing of Sarah’s death, then compose himself to deliver a eulogy. Abraham, however, eulogizes Sarah before he weeps. Why is the order reversed?

The Kli Yakar offers a profound explanation. Normally, he writes, mourning  diminishes as time passes and memories fade. But Sarah’s absence was different. Her loss was felt more deeply as each day passed. (Kli Yakar, Genesis 23:2)

We often recognize the significance of people only once they are gone. And many times through the ordinary things they do: the advice they offer, attention they give, or little things that make a family or community stronger. These contributions may not be announced with gusto. They simply become part of the fabric of our lives, and we can easily take them for granted. And all too often, we only begin to see how much they had been holding together once they are gone. How significant their presence was in our lives as we journey on without them.

Abraham’s eulogy reminds us of long form of mourning. Not just the immediate sharp pain of loss. To notice the contributions of those important people around us.

But recognizing a loss does not always require words. Sometimes simply being present is enough.

In Udi Ben Seadia’s 2025 memoir of Arnon Zamora, איש אשר רוח בו, he describes the emotional toll on members of the Yamam hostage rescue unit following October 7. After rescuing many people from homes and shelters on that terrible day, many were left with haunting anguish for those they could not protect, and colleagues they had lost in the process.

One member recounts how Arnon helped his men: sitting with them one-on-one, allowing them to talk through what they had experienced, and simply staying with them. Sometimes there were long silences. Arnon did not rush to fill the space with words. His willingness to simply sit together was the best form of support.

The story offers another understanding of comfort. It does not always come from making the right speech or offering a perspective that makes the loss easier to bear. There are moments when explanations, reassurances, or attempts to make sense of what happened can feel inadequate. Support may mean listening without rushing to respond, remaining alongside someone in their pain, and allowing silence to be part of the conversation.

When I first visited that shiva, I worried that my silence may translate into a failure to offer comfort. But sitting together, listening and sharing the moment was a more powerful support than I could have imagined.

Abraham’s mourning, and Arnon Zamora’s example, reinforce this lesson. There are moments when words cannot diminish the loss, and trying too hard to find them may only get in the way. Sometimes the most meaningful thing we can offer is to sit with someone, listen, and allow the silence to remain.

The name Chayei Sarah reminds us that a life well-lived leaves a lasting influence, even after death. Abraham’s eulogy helps us appreciate those who have touched our lives, long after they are gone. And Arnon’s example shows that presence can be a gift even when we have nothing useful to say.

Perhaps these lessons extend beyond moments of mourning. The people who shape our lives are here with us now. We can recognize their kindness, acknowledge their influence, and tell them what their presence means to us. We may not always find the right words, but we can make sure that the people who matter to us feel how important they are while we are still together.