The Pressure Is Over

I’m pretty sure the 11 months of leading the davening for my mother a”h, went easier than those for my father, if only because I had done it before and therefore knew I would muddle through in some fashion. My street has, however, aged in the intervening 17 years, which meant more mourners and more schedules to be rearranged as new members joined the mourner’s club and claimed their rightful priority during shloshim.

At the beginning of the mourning period for my father, I would rather have faced the fastball of Roger Clemens in his prime than go to the amud. One of the things I inherited from my father is a certain self-consciousness about things I do not do well, and there were few things I have ever done as poorly in full view as leading the davening. At the end of each minyan, a large group lined up to offer their suggestions. But at least I had the reward of knowing how well my father would have understood my discomfiture and been appreciative of my torments on his behalf.

At the end of the 11 months, I was grateful, however, to have acquired a new skill, and that I no longer had to feel like a Marrano in shul, dreading that some gabbai might motion me to the amud. As I said, this time went easier. But my ArtScroll Hebrew siddur purchased for the occasion still contains a fair measure of underlining and notes, where either my pronunciation or accentuation were found wanting.

In my misspent youth, I used to teach tennis to beginners in the summer. Tennis coaches are taught to focus on one thing at a time, and not to point out new failures in the pupil’s stroke when he is already working on something else. One thing at a time. And I realized this year how good that advice is: The more things I was trying to concentrate on, the less likely I was to nail any particular improvement.