The frustrating thing is that I had achieved that intense kavanah, but now I have to struggle for it — more often than not, failing miserably. It doesn’t help that the Satan does some of his best work while I attempt to daven

I

n high school, davening was easy.

As soon as I opened my siddur, my mind would automatically enter “the zone”; thoughts focused on the words alone, concentration so intense that following Aleinu, I’d surface to awareness like a swimmer to the top of the water.

It was all downhill from there.

Ideally, davening should be a safe place, where I foist my burdens on Hashem, when I tell Him about all I have to take care of and ask for His assistance. Tell Me about your worries, I’d hear when I davened. Have faith in Me, mammelah.

But that occurs less often than I’d like.

The frustrating thing is that I had achieved that intense kavanah, but now I have to struggle for it — more often than not, failing miserably. It doesn’t help that the Satan does some of his best work while I attempt to daven. The phone rings, shattering my concentration. (Telemarketing should be made illegal!) Even though I left my breakfast simmering on the lowest flame with adequate liquid, I start to smell burning oatmeal. The doorbell chimes; it’s my father-in-law, stuck outside while I’m in middle of Shemoneh Esreh. I remember the obscure items I need to add to an online order: magnesium, apple cider vinegar. Then the standard groceries: bananas, zucchini. Are we out of yogurt?

Then there are the mornings when davening is shoved to the side, even though I definitely have three minutes to say brachos, and could probably finagle another ten or so for Shema and Shemoneh Esreh. There are the times when I rattle through the tefillos like a steam engine, one eye on the clock lest I miss my train by one frustrating minute.

I used to have an established time for prayer. Every morning, my alarm rang at the same time. I got up at the same time. I ate, dressed, and davened within a specific time frame. That routine didn’t guarantee a proper davening, but it definitely helped.

But then my mother got sick, and I’d have to run to the facility early in the morning to relieve the night nurse. Davening in her room was impossible, as the aides would enter when I couldn’t talk or move. I was so frazzled and exhausted during the shivah that kavanah seemed unobtainable. My engagement a few weeks later, while of course a happy occasion, didn’t exactly lend me any opportunities to improve my concentration.

Simultaneously adjusting to being married and being motherless is not a simple endeavor. My distracted thoughts regarding to-do lists constantly torpedoed my attempts to daven.

On my first Succos as a married woman, I was staying at my sister’s home. She asked her younger daughters, aged eight and ten, to daven, while she prepared for the seudah. They reacted the way I did at their age — by sighing. Feeling put upon. Insisting they couldn’t find their socks, even though they were right in front of them. The fine art of procrastination.

I recalled myself as a little girl, when Ma would instruct me to say Lechu Neranenah on Friday nights. It was hard at that age. I was still stumbling over the Hebrew, the words clumsy on my tongue. It took so long to enunciate the tefillah correctly, and chances are, I wasn’t, anyway.

Once, I decided to cheat, murmuring “mumble, mumble, mumble,” but Ma picked up on my crime immediately. “Go back and say it right,” she ordered.

Awed at her omniscience, I thought twice before trying to con her again.

I didn’t want my nieces to see davening as a burden. Then I wondered: Was I really so different? How to salvage our collective disinterest? Inspiration shined. “C’mon, sweeties, let’s sing Hallel!” I said. Both love to sing. The older, the “actress,” is always performing; the younger belts out the Shabbos zemiros with verve.

We opened our personalized machzorim with alacrity, and loudly sang the same tunes I had sung in elementary school.

As our voices mingled, I could taste gratitude for my family, the beautiful Yom Tov, the hope for the next generation, the values that were passed on. The happiness that small gifts bring: the perfect weather, my new shoes, the delicious sea bass my sister had made. All those good feelings were infused in those melodies, and my chest swelled with joy. That davening opened my heart anew.

If I could just summon those emotions I experienced that perfect morning, when I felt such appreciation, when my mind and soul were both present, I would be able to daven the way I should. With praise, thanks, and requests, altogether a shirah to the Heavens.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 640)