As the Yamim Noraim conclude, I find myself drawn to the quiet awareness of life’s fragility. This season, which awakens in us a sense of man’s feebleness and mortality, has carried a particular poignancy for me this year. In the stillness before bein hameitzarim, even before Tishah B’Av, the sense of mourning crept in early.

In Iyar, I was approached by Reb Dovid Steingroot, a member of my kollel for working bnei Torah. He said to me, almost matter-of-factly, “Rebbi, I don’t know how I’m going to tell you this.”

Although I braced myself for difficult news, I was wholly unprepared for what followed.

“I don’t know if I will still be here in a few weeks. I was diagnosed with stage 4 pancreatic cancer, and the prognosis is not good. Other than my wife and sister, I have not yet told anyone but you.”

The news stung. Reb Dovid was the embodiment of my vision for the kollel — a baal habayis and talmid chacham who learned b’iyun, with a sweet tooth for the finer things in lomdus and machshavah. On a personal level, he was also a dear friend.

I felt the burden of being his almost exclusive confidant, a role suddenly thrust upon me. What could I possibly say? To offer a bitachon shmuess, urging him to hold on tight, seemed inadequate, even demeaning. Who was I to lecture a man confronting his own mortality, courageously standing before the Malach HaMaves? Instead, my response was simply to listen. And listen more. And to tell him how much he meant to me, and that I would always be here for him.

He was niftar at the beginning of Tammuz. Alongside the sadness, I also felt heartened by our friendship and the sanctity of having shared in his final tekufah in Olam Hazeh. These mixed emotions primed me for the bein hameitzarim that followed and deeply influenced the spirit of my shiurim. I centered the Shabbos Chazon–Tishah B’Av program I led in Scottsdale, Arizona, on the stages of grief and how they undergird both Megillas Eichah and Kinnos. What follows is a brief sketch of that presentation. I hope that it will give cadence to our appreciation of the preciousness of life — a life we have been pleading for throughout this season of zachreinu l’chayim.

Stage 1: Denial

The mourner is overwhelmed by the enormity of his pain and cannot yet process what has happened. His emotions are unformed, and he is left speechless, as Chazal remark, “An avel has no mouth.” At most he can utter a stammer of confusion, captured by the central word of Tishah B’Av: “Eichah — How could it be?” The mourner is internally at war, wrestling with a reality he does not wish to accept.

The Midrash rereads eichah as ayekah — "Where are you?” This is not a mere play on words but a core depiction of denial. The mourner feels utterly untethered, without orientation in the world. Similarly, the Midrash reads eichah as ei koh — ”Where is koh?” Koh connotes clarity (“koh yihyeh zaracha,” “v’neilchah ad koh”), which the mourner, asking eichah, cannot find.

This posture of denial may seem pitiful from the outside, but to the mourner’s inner reality, it is entirely authentic. He must allow himself to dwell in this stage. Only by letting the cauldron of denial churn can he move on to the next phases of grief and healing.

Stage 2: Depression

This stage is reflected in the structure of Megillas Eichah. Chazal note that it contains two types of text. Three chapters (1, 2, and 4) are alef-beis acrostics beginning with eichah, composed by Yirmiyahu before the Churban. Chapter 3, however, is a longer alef-beis acrostic in which each letter appears three times. It begins not with eichah but with “Ani hagever — I am the man who has seen affliction,” and was composed after the Churban.

Notice the shift: Yirmiyahu no longer speaks in the language of denial (eichah), but of painful recognition — “I am the man who has seen affliction. Yes, that pathetic man is me.” Now that the Churban has morphed from a bad nightmare into an inescapable reality that he must face down, he fully acknowledges the devastation before him.

The structure reinforces the point. Instead of three separate acrostics, Chapter 3 presents one unified sequence, each letter appearing thrice in order. The mind is no longer discombobulated or diffused, and the truth is no longer evaded. Rather, it is acknowledged as plain and uncomplicated.

This shift from denial to depression marks deep inner maturation. The mourner now faces reality head-on. Still, grief is not linear, and the heart wavers. Perhaps this explains why Ani hagever is positioned between two Eichah chapters, symbolizing the soul’s vacillation between denial and depression. Yet gradually, the pendulum swings toward lasting acknowledgment. This stage of depression is critical, for it ultimately prepares the mourner for acceptance.

The Final Stage: Acceptance

Acceptance emerges naturally from the willingness to face pain. The mourner reaches a point where there is no longer resistance. The voice of sadness softens. Instead of wrestling with fate, he yields gracefully to the Divine Will.

Perhaps this is why we find a preponderance of hopeful affirmations specifically in the Ani hagever chapter, for example, “therefore I have anticipation,” “Hashem’s kindness never ends,” “Hashem is my portion” (3:21–24). Hope can only break through now that depression has been fully felt and allowed to run its course.

Patience is crucial here. One must resist the temptation to bypass the earlier stages in a rush to healing. Grief cannot be shortcut; otherwise, it resurfaces unbidden. Only by enduring the full cycle does one arrive at genuine nechamah.

This process is also reflected in Eichah. The verse (2:13) says: “For your ruin is as vast as the sea — who can heal you?” On the pshat level, the question is rhetorical; no one can heal such destruction. But on the derash level, Rav Yonason David notes the implication of a sincere inquiry: Maybe there is someone who can cure. It is precisely the abysmal grief (“For your ruin is as vast as the sea”) that opens the possibility of healing.

I suggest that this interpretation is accentuated by contrasting an almost identical lamentation in Sefer Yirmiyahu (8:22), but one that sees no cure, and challenges: “Is there no balm in Gilad, is there no physician there?” Unlike that verse that expresses protest and denial, here the question is earnest: Perhaps there really is healing.

True nechamah emerges from acceptance, when grief has been fully absorbed and transformed.

Living from Nechamah

Nechamah restores the mourner’s spirit, not only accompanying him but becoming a source from which he draws strength. It opens within him a renewed and hopeful outlook on his loss. Sharp heartbreak gives way to gentle remembrance, and above all, he feels grateful for the cherished bond he was privileged to experience.

Months after the passing of my dear Reb Dovid Steingroot, I find myself gaining new perspectives on his life, even learning things I never knew before.

For example: At one point, his accounting firm underwent upheaval, resulting in widespread layoffs. He, too, lost his job, yet he interpreted it as Divine providence, a sign that he should go independent. He succeeded, with Hashem’s blessing. When he hired a financial planner — a secular Jew in Utah — he insisted they first learn Shaar Habitachon together before beginning any investment, to secure Hashem’s brachah.

Their learning left a profound impact. The planner broke off a relationship with a non-Jewish girlfriend, found a Jewish woman, and asked Reb Dovid — whom he now affectionately called “Rabbi” — to officiate at their wedding. Sadly, by then, Reb Dovid had already ascended to Olam HaEmes. Yet a new chavrusa was found for this rekindled soul.

I discovered this story, worthy of a gedolim biography, almost by accident. What a holy Jew I was privileged to know — and continue to feel connected to in Olam Haneshamos. Yehi zichro baruch.

As we part from this season of zachreinu l’chayim, may we carry with us a tender awareness of life’s fragility and of how tenuous our grasp is on this most precious gift. May this awareness inspire us to treasure each day we are granted and to deepen every bond we are blessed to forge.

Rabbi Yonah Sklare is a rosh kollel in Baltimore, an author, and a sought-after lecturer. His shiurim engage a broad audience in person and worldwide online.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1082)