The other day, a member of my congregation who works at a local funeral home asked me to review a prayer to be recited upon lighting a seven-day shiva candle. I found the prayer to be cold and stiff. When I told my congregant that, she asked if I might be able to write one myself. I willingly agreed.


One of my earliest memories is seeing a shiva candle burning in my family's living room. At the time we lived in a row home in Philadelphia. Unlike the candle pictured above, the candle I recall was contained within a red-colored glass sheath. At night, it cast a beautiful reddish glow through the room.

The candle was there because we were sitting shiva -- though I didn't know it at the time. I don't recall hearing the word "shiva" mentioned. Whenever I see a shiva candle burning in a home, I think of that first one that I saw. It's not an unpleasant sensation. Somehow, even though that candle was burning in a home that had suffered a serious loss, remembering that candle brings back feelings of warmth and security.

My mother died at the age of 39. I was five years old at the time, so I don't have too many memories of her. I do remember that, just before the funeral, my sisters and I were allowed to see her. She was dressed in a beautiful blue dress. I remember that we had been involved in choosing that dress. At some point between my mother's death and the funeral, my Aunt Eva (my mother's sister) had come over to our house to choose the outfit in which my mother would be buried. My aunt showed that blue dress to the three of us, and I recall all of us nodding our heads in agreement.

In the coffin, my mother looked lovely. We were alone. Since children weren't permitted to attend funerals in those days, this was our last chance to see my mother and "say goodbye." I was curious and couldn't stop myself. I reached out to touch her wrist. It looked normal, but it felt cold. Before we left the room, my father bent down to kiss my mother on her forehead.

I recall that sometime afterwards, someone -- it might have been my Aunt Eva -- asked me, "Weren't the flowers lovely?"

"What flowers?" I said. And this elicited startled, amused reactions: "You mean you didn't notice the flowers?" "Can you believe it, he didn't notice the flowers!"

The memory I have of that shiva candle must have been from later that day or one of the days thereafter. The house was a grieving household, and yet I can recall feeling calm as I looked at that candle.

The symbolism of a shiva candle is, indeed, powerful. It's a reminder of the ability of a human soul to illuminate someone's life -- even after death. That was certainly true in the case of my mother, and it is true whenever a loving, caring person, a person who forms strong connections with other human beings, dies.

My hope is that I will be able to write a prayer that can bring to the surface mourners' appreciation for their loved ones, and rally their hope for the future, so that when they light the shiva candle, they will feel the way I did, way back when I first saw such a candle burning in my family's living room.