When the son of Rabbi Yochanan ben Zakkai died, the sages came to the house of mourning in waves. Each tried to comfort the old master. Each failed. He sat in his grief like a stone.
Rabbi Eliezer came with sober words. Rabbi Yehoshua came with scripture. Rabbi Yose came with memories. Rabbi Shimon came with silence. None of them reached him.
Last came Rabbi Elazar ben Arach. He sat down across from his teacher and said, "I will tell you a parable.
"A king entrusted a precious object to a man for safekeeping. Each day the man wept over it, saying, 'When will I be free of this responsibility? When will I be able to return it without a scratch?' When at last the king came to take it back, the man returned it in perfect condition. Then he rejoiced. He was not happy the object was gone. He was happy that he had kept faith.
"Master, you have done just this. You were entrusted with a son, a deposit from the Holy One. You returned him — in a perfect condition, as a great scholar and without a moral blemish — to the One who entrusted him to you. Your trust was kept. Your tenure was honorable. You have been faithful to the One who gave, and now He has simply taken back what was always His" (Avot de-Rabbi Natan 14; Gaster, Exempla No. 171).
Rabbi Yochanan ben Zakkai lifted his head at last and was comforted.
This is perhaps the Jewish answer to grief in its purest form. Not that death is fair. Not that we will one day forget. But that our beloved was never ours — they were loaned, in trust, and we can still be grateful for the years we held them even while we weep for their return.