Closure After a Storm – 44 Years Later

Last night, Atlantic Beach was hit by a tornado.

You read correctly. It does not happen often. For a few frightening minutes, there was chaos and uncertainty. People watched the sky, listened to the wind and wondered what was happening. Thankfully, the storm passed without significant damage. In the morning, the sun came out.

Sometimes life is like that. We endure moments of fear and uncertainty when we don't know when the storm will end. And sometimes, even after the storm passes, its effects linger.

For the family of Yehuda Katz, the storm lasted 44 years.

Katz was an IDF soldier who went missing in the Battle of Sultan Yacoub in Lebanon in 1982. For 44 years, his family waited. For 44 years, Israel searched and did not give up. This week, his remains were finally recovered and brought home to Israel for burial.

There is something profoundly Jewish about refusing to leave a person behind even after death. The Torah says, “Kavor tikberenu - You shall surely bury him.” (Devarim 21:23) The Torah could simply have said tikberenu, “bury him.” Instead, it says kavor tikberenu. It emphasizes and accentuates the obligation. There is no negotiation or mitigation. You must surely bury him.

Jewish burial is a sacred obligation. Jewish tradition treats the deceased with extraordinary respect. The body is handled gently, privately and with reverence. Every single bone, body part, or remain must be buried.  Throughout history, Jews have taken extraordinary risks to recover and bury the dead. The IDF inherited that commitment. There is a special unit, Eitan, which stands for Itur Ne’edarim, which means collecting those that are lost. These soldiers are willing to risk their lives to bring every last fallen soldier home. Their work, rarely visible, involves years of investigation, intelligence gathering, and following seemingly insignificant leads.

In Yehuda Katz’s case, some may say he died 44 years ago. His parents are gone. We have mourned him. We have moved on. Instead, Israel said he is ours; bring him home. When he was finally found, something else happened. His family could finally begin to mourn. At the funeral, Yehuda’s brother poignantly announced that the family will now sit shiva “because until now, we had not given up hope of finding him alive. As far as we are concerned, Yehuda was killed this week, not 44 years ago.”

Rabbi David Stav, reflecting several months ago on the return of the remains of Lt. Hadar Goldin, observed that bringing the fallen home for burial is simultaneously an experience of terrible pain and the beginning of comfort and closure. For 44 years, Yehuda's family lived in a storm of uncertainty. Now, the storm is over. There is pain and grief, but there is also certainty. There is a place to mourn and a grave to visit. There is also finally a beginning to the process of healing.

Jewish burial does not only provide closure. It points forward.

There is an intriguing Hebrew word for a gravesite, tziyun. The more familiar matzeivah refers to the gravestone. A tziyun is the marker that identifies the place where the deceased is buried. The word has a clear connection with the word Tziyon, Zion, as well as metzuyan, excellent. Rabbi Asher Pollak explains a tziyun is like a road marker. It tells us where someone is and, perhaps, where we are supposed to go. A Jewish grave is more than a place where the past is remembered. It is a roadmap for the future. The graves of those who came before us ask something of those who come after them. Remember, continue, build, live lives worthy of those who came before.

Yehuda Katz has come home as a reminder that we are still here and always will be. The Jewish people endured Sultan Yacoub. We have endured exile, persecution, and destruction. We endured 44 years of painful uncertainly. We are still here. Yehuda Katz’s grave points toward the future.

These events take place against the backdrop of an auspicious time of year. Elul is a transitional month. The old year with all its ups and downs is coming to an end, but the new year has not yet begun. We stand between what was and what can be. Like the morning after a storm, Elul gives us the opportunity to look at what happened, take stock of what remains, and prepare for what comes next. It is about remembering and looking backward before we move forward. It is about asking ourselves what and whom we have allowed ourselves to forget. Who have we stopped calling? What relationship have we allowed to become distant? What responsibility have we quietly convinced ourselves is no longer ours? Elul asks us to return to God, to people, to commitments and to values we may have neglected.

Kavor tikberenu has a message for the living as well as the dead. A Jewish grave is a marker but also gives direction. It’s a reminder of death, but ultimately an affirmation of life. It amplifies the message of tziyun, of Zion, and of Elul itself. Remember where you came from. Know where you are going. Keep moving toward redemption.

Last night, the sky over Atlantic Beach was stormy and frightening. This morning, the sun came out. Today, after 44 years, Yehuda Katz's family has closure. There is pain, but there is also a grave, a place to remember, and the possibility of moving forward. The storm is over. There is closure. The sun has come out.

May Yehuda’s family find comfort and strength and may the calm after the storm inaugurate a glorious new year to come.