What do you say to a mother with a broken heart?

This sign stands in the traffic circle at the entrance to our neighborhood.

It reads: “The community of the French Carmel bows its head in mourning for Sergeant First Class (Res.) Benyamin Asulin, of blessed memory, who fell in battle.”

The shiva for Benny Asulin is over, and already there are other soldiers to bury.

Other families sitting shiva.

And Benny’s smiling face looks out at us from this modest, unofficial memorial.

We went to the shiva on the last day. Earlier, we had attended the shiva of Re’ei Biran. So much grief, it’s hard to breathe…

The Asulin family was just breaking the fast of the 17th of Tammuz, a day that marks the beginning of the Three Weeks—a mourning period leading up to Tisha B’Av, the day commemorating the destruction of both the First and Second Temples in Jerusalem. The 17th of Tammuz recalls the breaching of the city walls and other tragedies in Jewish history.

The three weeks are considered to be a dangerous time for the Jewish people. A time when terrible things happened – in those days, and obviously, in ours too.

I found Aida, Benny’s mother, sitting quietly, modestly on the side. I knelt beside her so we could speak eye to eye.

She held my hand even before I spoke, before she knew who I was.

I told her we’re neighbors. That we had seen Benny’s radiant smile and wanted to be with her in her grief. That we were at the funeral and had now come to the shiva.

She smiled—a smile that almost reached her eyes—and said: “Benny is smiling at you now. He liked good people.”

Then she sighed: “I can’t believe he will never be with me again.”

What do you say to a mother with a broken heart?

I know that there is no surcease from sorrow. Time does not heal, and lies bring only weakness—not strength.

I also knew that it would be easier to hear a message from Miriam Peretz than from me. Miriam Peretz lost two of her sons in Israel’s fight to survive and has since become a symbol of hope and strength.

So I told Aida I wanted to say something I heard Miriam Peretz explain:

“A mother at her son’s funeral wants to jump into the grave with him. Instead of him. To die so that he could live.”

Aida nodded in agreement. The words felt right to her.

I continued: “It takes a full year for the heart to accept what the mind already knows—that he isn’t coming back. You have to go through every holiday, every birthday, every family event… but eventually, you will also be happy. You will have a happy home! There will always be a hole in your heart, but you will also be able to feel happiness.”

Softly, Aida asked: “But how can I be happy and celebrate, when he’s not here?”

I answered. This time, with my words: “Benny went to fight to protect us all. He died so that we can live. So that we, and you, could be happy. You, above everyone else, because of the extraordinary relationship you had. He died so that we can live. How can we not be happy? Wouldn’t that be disrespectful to him and his heroic sacrifice?”

She nodded in agreement, squeezed my hand, and said: “I want you to come sit down and eat.”

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