A Yid’s Place

I ’m still looking for someone to blame for my lack of shul-going prowess.

It’s not like I didn’t go to shul as a kid. Rosh Hashanah meant getting all spiffy in new clothes bags of candy bickering and jumping around the playground outside waiting for the shofar’s cry.

I got older and come Yom Kippur I’d don pink Chinese slippers and a solemn face sit elegantly next to my mother and watch the bubbies wade through their tissue boxes.

Eventually I was a big girl. I tried to daven really daven. I listened to the baal tefillah strained to focus sometimes shed a tear. Then I was a kallah then a mother-to-be and my prayers gained a new level of potency; there was a future to daven for a baby dear G-d! Baruch Hashem by the following year I was no longer among the shul-goers.