Words that break through those barriers and blockages to make your tefillos soar
Every year I was wrapped in something else, whatever was in that year, a pashmina, a cardigan, a blazer. Every year it was the same, Yom Kippur was nearly over, and I was freezing. They always blasted the AC on Yamim Noraim, which makes sense. But I can’t think when I’m cold.
Though, to be honest, I wasn’t doing much thinking. I sat in the second set of rows of chairs, seated between my mother and Mrs. Berger, stealing glances at their machzorim to know the right page. I often lost the place; I often fell asleep. I was never the best davener. Still not.
By the time Neilah came, I was more restless than ever. It was bordering on over, and yet still long. I’d look over at everyone else, see the lemons decorated with cloves, some elaborate patterns, others obvious first-grade projects. There were reading glasses on, reading glasses off, sneakers, flats, slippers, a few white kerchiefs. There were diamond rings of different sizes, on different sized hands, thin and bony, firm and fleshy. I saw everything but the page in front of me.
And then at the end, almost the very end, the murmurs starting low in unison would shift something in me. They bypassed my mind, slipped past my fidgeting, and registered deep within the chambers of my heart. I didn’t know what it was then, just that I loved it, and for a glimmering moment, I felt the day, as the voices rose with each repetition, swelling, leading the crescendo of Hashem Hu Ha’Elokim.
Create a free account to keep reading.
