Let me preface this by pointing out that we were leaving an appointment in the city late yesterday evening and knew we would get to services late. Nicole said she would feel embarrassed walking in late, and what if we just enjoy an evening in Manhattan and go out to dinner? I told her that while I loved that she was having a romantic moment of spontaneity and I didn't want to reject her, I knew I wouldn't enjoy myself because I would be so disappointed about having missed services. I suggested we do that planfully on a Saturday evening sometime, now that the weather is nice, but that I really wanted to go to services tonight. She agreed, but as we sat in crawling traffic and watched the minutes tick by way too fast, she said again that maybe we should just go home. I told her that I'd rather walk in late than not go, that I needed it in a way I couldn't explain, and that she could just drop me off if she was too uncomfortable about going in. She did end up going in with me. The reason I'm starting with this is because all of what I write below would have been missed if I didn't insist on following that magnetic pull that drew me there.
The other day, when we were talking with our friend C about the strong, insistent pull to attend every single Shabbat service (a feeling she shares completely), she said that it's hard to miss any sermon because the wisdom in them is so universal that you always feel it is speaking to you.
Boy did I feel that last night.
Rabbi spoke about several different things, but the piece that riveted me the most was when she talked about engagement and connection. She said that we have to pay careful attention to our inner critic, because while some of what it tells us about our flaws are true, it will convince us that we are not worthy or that we are not good enough for Judaism or God. We may feel that because we are weak in this or that area, far from what we strive to be, or because we don't do a certain thing "enough" or "the right way," that we don't belong or shouldn't be participating. But that's not true. God doesn't expect perfection, and we are worthy to join in with our community no matter what. We are not just connected to God when we're happy and things are going well and we feel good about ourselves and our choices and behavior. We are connected to God all the time.
At the meditation workshop on Thursday evening, Rabbi had asked how I was doing, and I said, "Amazing! I'm still riding the high." Last night, she said in her sermon, "Life is full of milestones where we feel particularly close to God, such as a wedding or the birth of a new baby or a conversion. Cherish the spiritual highs and remember them in times when you may not feel so connected to God. Use that to get yourself through and to remember that you are connected and you belong here no matter what your current emotions or circumstances."
Though, as C said, the beauty and wisdom of a good sermon is that each person feels that the rabbi is speaking directly to them, my heart stopped when she said that. It truly felt like she was talking specifically to me. And it was a great reminder that I may not always feel this sheer joy and excitement. At some point, it may feel so normal and routine that I have to actively seek out ways to keep that spark. While I'm using somewhat of a lifelong committed relationship metaphor, I'll take it a step further and say that if you love it and remain connected and involved and seek out opportunities to reinvigorate yourself as you desire, then this isn't so hard as it may be if you are less interested in doing so or take a more passive role. I know that my relationship with Judaism will evolve, and I have to be realistic that, if not lows, there will at least be plateaus, and I have to be able to feel that without being threatened by it, and then remember the joy and intensity of this early love and build on that to reconnect.
After services, C got stopped by a few people who wanted to compliment her on her solo last week. We went up to the oneg without her, and then about ten minutes later, I told Nicole I wanted to go back down to the sanctuary and rescue C. As I bounded quickly down the steps and into the hallway, who was heading in my direction but Rabbi! The same rabbi that I am always too shy to pull aside and talk to in group settings (which is all the time) when everyone is competing for her attention. The same rabbi that I sent my mikvah journal entry to because I so wanted to process it all with her and had to acknowledge sadly that there wouldn't really be an opportunity since we have had no chance to talk privately since then. She is never alone, and we certainly never just happen upon one another alone.
I said hello and then, lamely, "I'm going to go find C." Rabbi didn't allow me to nervously skitter away, instead stopping me to tell me she had just read my (long, emotional) thank-you letter. She said that I write beautifully and that my writing had moved her to tears three times just that week. She thanked me for sharing that with her, and then hugged me. Rabbi thanked ME. What??? And for writing, when she writes the most brilliant and beautiful articles in our newsletter that is like another sermon? I'm just a humble, adoring fan. A mere student. A learner, a consumer. I was floored that SHE was thanking ME. I still am. When I told Nicole later that I struggled to grasp that, she said immediately, "It's like you with your teens at work. You may be the professional and the one in the helping position, but you always feel privileged when they let you in and you feel fulfilled and rewarded by so much of your interactions with them, especially where you feel you have had an impact. You feel like you learn just as much from them." She can be so wise sometimes.
I told Rabbi that I'd wanted to talk to her about everything that was going on in my head and my heart during the mikvah, but that even if I'd had the opportunity, I tend not to be as articulate verbally. My inhibitions get in the way and I tend to stumble it out, missing some details and awkwardly repeating others.
She hugged me and thanked me for giving of myself to her, for opening up and letting her share in my experiences. I'm so moved that it touched her so much, and so grateful for the perfect series of events which led me to run into her there alone in the hallway. It was just the quiet moment I needed with her after the intensity of last Friday, all of which was shared with so many other people. It gave me such happiness, and that last piece of closure I didn't even know I was craving.
Then Nicole came out to find me and joined us. I told Rabbi how something had changed in Nicole when I converted, as she has since begun attending Torah study and classes, and that I'm so enjoying being able to share that with her and talk about it afterward. I said we almost hadn't made it tonight, and that I was freaking out because there was no way I could go another seven days before going to a service. She said, "I love it," and her smile lit up her whole face.
We almost didn't get to hear this sermon which spoke more powerfully to me than possibly any others, and I almost didn't get to have that one private moment with the rabbi to thank her and hug her and feel a little emotional with her.
If I had said, "Yes, let's just go have dinner and miss services." If I had said, "Yes, it's getting later than we anticipated because of heavy traffic, let's just go straight home." If I hadn't followed that invisible, stubborn wire that was tugging me toward temple no matter what the obstacles. If C hadn't been detained by adoring fans after the service. If I wasn't close enough with C to want to go rescue her. If I hadn't left, without Nicole, just to go check on her right at the moment that Rabbi was coming up. If Rabbi hadn't been down there for whatever reason. If Rabbi had had even one other person with her as is almost always the case because she is everyone's rock star and they all want to talk to her after anything she leads. If Rabbi had let me get away with, "I'm going to go get C" and had just smiled a greeting as I bounded down the stairs.
I may sound a little dramatic, but I can't overemphasize the importance and specialness of that moment. If it sounds dramatic, then that just means I'm not able sufficiently to explain why it was all so special to me. I replayed it in my mind giddily all night. And it was so close, a thousand times, to never having happened.
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