Five years ago my grandmother died on Yom Kippur. Two days after Yom Kippur, we traveled to Easton, Pennsylvania, to attend her funeral.

Getting to Easton, which is a very small town, is not an easy task, especially on short notice. Exhausted, we arrived in Easton for the funeral and minyan. Our time was short, as I had to return to San Antonio for Sukkot services, and so on the way home, we opted to carry all of our luggage onto the plane. At our last connection in Chicago after an emotional, and exhausting few days, the gate attendant told Charlie that he had too many bags to carry onto the plane. Our reactions to this comment were swift and extreme: Charlie reacted with anger, and I with tears.

At first, we were indignant because it seemed so arbitrary-we'd already been on four flights in the last few days without any problems! Then I realized we were upset for another reason: that the gate attendant didn't just “get it”. Shouldn't it have been obvious that we were flying from my grandmothers' funeral? I felt it should have been evident to everyone with whom we came into contact: we weren't normal travelers, jetting for business or pleasure. We were mourners.

When dealing with death, we often feel as if we are branded --physically marked in some way-- by grief. People have remarked to me that they can't believe, when they look into the mirror, that the reflection staring back at them is the same one it always was. It's frustrating, in a way, that the mark of grief is not physical and obvious because it certainly feels real. It does feel that it would be easier if we could walk around with a placard that proclaimed: “be gentle: mourner!”

Judaism does provide a temporary symbol for primary mourners, a torn article of clothing or the kria ribbon, the torn black ribbon worn over the heart. It is a real comfort to wear this ribbon, showing an outward sign of our ripped hearts. But we only wear it for a few days, those initial days of numbness. We do not carry that physical reminder with us as we journey further into our sadness.

When branded by grief, not only are surprised when the bank clerk doesn't intuitively know our pain, we're equally overwhelmed that the routines of the normal world continue. When HEB employee tries to make appropriate chit-chat, the normalcy of it is disconcerting!

Feeling marked, physically wounded, reminds me of the story of Jacob wrestling with the divine messenger. He, too, was wounded, as he pummeled and grunted his way through the night, until finally, the darkness of the evening faded. He tells the messenger that he must leave, for daybreak is coming. The divine being knows that he has been bested, but in a last move, he yanks on Jacob's hip, dislocating it. Jacob releases him in a yelp of pain, as the wrestler moves to leave.

We are each wounded, marked for the rest of our lives, by grief, as Jacob was marked by his new physical misshapenness. Jacob was lucky, in a way: everyone could see his physical deformity. We, however, will always carry the mark of grief, like an invisible scarlet letter.

It strikes me that Jacob's wrestling match offers more than a poetic analogy in our grief journey. The image of Jacob wrestling, wrestling with an uninvited visitor struck me as apt as well. For we, too, have wrestled- and continue to wrestle with a startling force: Grief. Grief is so overwhelming, so consuming, that it becomes, as it were, a being. A real and tangible presence in our lives. Grief is an unwelcome visitor-one whom we'd much rather expel-so that we could make our lives could be as they were before this undesirable guest. But, unlike Jacob, this visitor keeps returning, and we are forced to grapple with it, again and again, through the dark nights of our own personal sadness. I wonder if Jacob felt as we do: that this is totally surreal-- we'll wake up and none of the pain will have been real. It will be a dream, a nightmare, and we'll roll over and kiss our husband good morning; walk to the next room and get our daughter up for breakfast, or pick up the phone to call our Dad. But, instead, the nights continue. The wrestling match journeys on, and, we continue to wrestle-with this unexpected, overwhelming force we call grief. We wonder: will this encounter ever end?

The story of Jacob and the Angel concludes: “Wait”, Jacob yells-“don't leave me until you offer me a blessing!” Pausing, the divine being looks at Jacob, doubled over in pain at the agony of his wrenched hip socket and says, “Your name shall no longer be Jacob, but Yisrael: one who has wrestled with God and prevailed.” And the messenger disappeared.

Jacob, renamed Yisrael, limps into the sunrise. His identity is transformed: he carries, with his limp, an extra name. We have new identities as well. With those identities come new names: Widow. Widower. Orphan. Childless. We will always be different; renamed by our wrestling match with grief. We can never return to who were before the death of our parent, sibling, spouse . . . . We, like Jacob, are renamed: Yisrael: one who has struggled.

But what blessing did he receive? Perhaps the long night of wrestling itself was the blessing. After all, Yisrael means: one who struggled-and prevailed. We will prevail-the dark nights of grief-wrestling will end. The sun will rise. And one day, just as Jacob walked into the sunrise, we'll be able to greet the day stronger and surer of ourselves for the struggles we have endured. We'll learn to incorporate the pain with the beauty, the joy with the struggle, and greet the sunlight again. Our blessing comes when we rise to greet the sun; for we will be more sensitive and fully developed human beings, allowing us to become more responsive to the aches and hurts of fellow sufferers. As we read in our prayerbook: “. . .And in truth, grief is a great teacher, when it sends us back to serve and bless the living. We learn how to counsel and comfort those who, like ourselves, are bowed with sorrow. We learn to keep silence in their presence, and when a word will assure them of our love and concern. “

Thus, even when they are gone, the prayer book teaches us, “the departed are with us, moving us to live, as, in their higher moments, they themselves wished to live. We remember them now; they lived in our hearts; they are an abiding blessing.”

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