When I first became a rabbi, I was invited to deliver High Holy Day remarks in a cemetery. In between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, Jewish communities visit the departed, a tradition known as Kever Avot. Our synagogue invited hundreds of community members to visit their deceased loved ones and hear a New Year’s message about memory and loss.
One year, I spoke about holding space for the memories of partners, parents, siblings, grandparents, family and friends. One day later, I received feedback that has forever changed who I am as a rabbi, therapist and human being. A dear congregant explained that a few years earlier, his grandchild had died. And when he listened to my words, I mistakenly forgot to include the category of children. He implored me to never forget that category again.
I haven’t. I never will. But forgetting isn’t just my failure. It’s ours. We avoid speaking about dead children because it feels impossible—and in that avoidance, we abandon the families who need us most.
The death of a child feels out of order. Because it is. For decades, child mortality rates fell steadily. That decline has now stalled. Globally, children die from disease, malnutrition, congenital conditions, accidental deaths, gun violence, drownings and other tragic circumstances. Speaking about a child’s death, especially with their parents and family, feels like attempting to sing underwater. Everything we utter sounds wrong. Our comfort feels hollow.
But here’s what I’ve learned based on my experience as a rabbi and therapist: not saying anything is worse. I know this because I’ve lived it.
The same congregant who admonished me for forgetting the category of a deceased child invited me to co-author Grieving a Child: A Compassionate Guide for Clergy. The grandfather, as well as the child’s mother and aunt joined my husband and me to write a manual for everyone, and especially clergy, therapists, caregivers and community leaders, to help those that support families through the horrific nightmare of losing a child. We want to bring the conversation forward and equip everyone, from clergy, to family, to friends, and neighbors, to engage rather than retreat.
Because by retreating, worried we will mess up horribly, we guarantee something worse: silence. These families are already experiencing their worst nightmare, and our absence only adds to their pain when presence is most needed.
Even years later, many hesitate to speak the child’s name, fearing it will deepen the parents’ anguish. But our research shows the opposite: parents feel comforted when others remember their child. Our discomfort is nothing compared to their loss. Transform it into presence.
There is no antidote when a parent loses a child. But there are ways to honor a child’s life and ensure their memory continues.
Throughout history, mourning has been communal, something a village, a congregation, a neighborhood absorbed together. The bereaved were not left to suffer while others looked away.
We know this firsthand through our own experiences of walking alongside grieving families. We have seen the difference between presence and absence. We cannot erase this tragedy, but what we can change is whether they face it alone. We can choose to show up. We can choose to stay.
We can breathe life into a child’s name, even when they no longer physically walk this earth.
At both the onset of the child’s death and years after, there may be an inclination to retreat as if the child’s death will rub off on our own family. In those early days, offer concrete help: meals, childcare, logistics. Don’t ask what they need—just show up. And don’t assume grief follows a timeline. Even parents mourning the same child may grieve differently. Sleep disruption, disorientation, and loss of appetite can linger. When they do, respond with steadiness, not alarm. And in each instance, say the child’s name. Name their existence. Give them the gift of hearing their child remembered.
Months or years later, reach out to the family on their child’s birthday and the anniversary of their death. Help create a fund or location in honor of the child. Do a good deed in their name. Remind the family that in your eyes and your heart, their child will always have a home. And don’t be attached to how your efforts are received—what matters is that you show up, that you stay, that you make it clear you are not going anywhere.
A few weeks ago, I sat down to write this article. My notes included the line: Milo is calling. Milo is the congregant that called me, reminding me not to forget about the death of a child. Milo would send me articles about death and grieving, faith and how religion must creatively and sensitively honor the memories of the departed. One hour after I wrote that in my notes, I found out that Milo passed away. The grandfather who taught me to never forget his grandson. The teacher who taught me to honor memory even when it is uncomfortable, hard, out of order or painfully sad.
As I promised him when I first started as a rabbi—and promise him now that he has entered the world to come—I will be the one who reminds all of us: like all categories of loss, the death of a child will always be upon my lips.
I will not forget and I pray, neither will you.
Rabbi Nicole Guzik is Senior Rabbi at Sinai Temple and the co-author of “Grieving a Child: A Companion Guide for Clergy.” She has served as a rabbi at Sinai Temple for 16 years and four years prior as Sinai Temple’s rabbinic intern.
