We leaned forward in our seats, wondering excitedly what forbidden word Mrs. Muskat was going to write on the board

Years ago, you crossed paths. It may have been a brief encounter, it may have been a relationship spanning years. In that meeting place, something changed. Her hands warmed your essence, left an imprint upon your soul.

Seven writers sought out the women who changed them — and told them of the impact they’d had

So my young, Modern Orthodox eyes, Mrs. Devorah Muskat was from a different planet.

I first met her as my sixth-grade Chumash teacher. She was Miss Weiner then, the kind of teacher whose heels clicking down the corridor made us all run for our seats. She had our class under perfect control, and her Chumash lessons had me mesmerized.

She got engaged and married that year, which lent her an added aura of mystique. Our biggest treat was to take time out of a lesson to hear stories about her chassan. I’d never encountered the concept of learning in kollel before, and as she’d quote Torah thoughts from her chassan, a seed was planted in my mind: I want a husband like that.

But it was in eighth grade, when Mrs. Muskat became our mechaneches, that she really impacted my life. By then, she had a baby girl, and Adina Aidel stories were added to her repertoire. But it was the other stories she told, the ideas she taught, that changed me.

She introduced us to a Torah hashkafah that was sometimes at odds with the communities we lived in, and she wasn’t afraid to tell it like it wasis, like when she discussed being shomer negiahh, not an easy concept for girls in a coed elementary school who were exposed to Hollywood to swallow.

I still recall the time she spoke about nivul peh. She related the shock she felt when, as a young girl, she walked past a group of non-Jewish children, and, for the first time in her life, heard someone use a not-nice word.

“I can’t even say it,” she told us. “So I’ll write it.”

We leaned forward in our seats, wondering excitedly what forbidden word Mrs. Muskat was going to write on the board.

She wrote: Shut up.

Tension broken, we all giggled at her idea of a curse word. But I remember how jarred I was, as it dawned on me that it was possible to be raised in an environment of such sensitivity. And from that day on, I couldn’t say those words.

Most of her teaching wasn’t about what we weren’t supposed to do, but about the beauty of a Torah lifestyle. Her weekly after-school mishmar classes were a window into a new and wonderful world. She called the class Jewish Aviation and would speak about concepts like our purpose in this world and our inner greatness. Sometimes she’d play a Journeys song, and spend the lesson analyzing the depth of Abie Rotenberg classics like “Ride the Train” and “Neshomaaleh.” I became a lifelong Journeys fan.

And then it came time to choose a high school.