"On Rosh Hashanah, the King comes dressed in His finest. Shouldn’t we present ourselves in our finest?”
Where I grew up, we had a minyan only on Shabbos morning. Finding ten men to come daven daily was not something the local Jewish community could handle. But once a week, 15 to 20 men would come for a few hours to my parents’ converted garage.
It was a diverse group of people. Some knew Hebrew and some could barely read the English transliteration of Barechu when called to the Torah. One of the regulars was Arnie. He was from a traditional home and knew how to read Hebrew well. He even had his own unique way of singing some of the regular Shabbos tunes. Arnie always dressed sharply, and each week he wore a different fancy watch.
Once a year, our shul was relocated into my parents’ house. We carried the living room couches down to the basement and the aron kodesh across the house to the east wall of the dining room. Chairs were rented and squeezed into every crevice of the house. Tishrei was coming!
On Rosh Hashanah morning, the crowd would trickle in — people we didn’t see all year. I don’t even know how they found the place, but they would quietly take their seats, each lost in their own world.
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