And why would He want to hear from me? What could I even say to Him? I’m sorry for what I didn’t know I did. I don’t know why You don’t love me anymore. I don’t even know what to say to You. Please let me not feel lonely anymore, I can’t take it. Who am I without You?

That’s what I said. It was all I could say. I talked about how I couldn’t talk. I cried because I couldn’t cry. This disconnection lasted around two years.

Then Rosh Hashanah arrived. I stood in the kiruv shul that my husband and I had founded, surrounded by hundreds of people, congregants who looked to me for chizuk and inspiration. They had no idea how I struggled. Amazing how you can stand in a room filled with people, people you know and like, and still feel profoundly lonely.

We had a choir alongside the chazzan, and during chazaras hashatz a young man from the choir stepped forward and began singing a new tune for “mechalkel chayim.” It was a tune I’d never heard before.

I’m a music person; niggunim stir up deep emotions within me. Somehow this unfamiliar tune evoked a new and profound insight into the words I say all the time:

You sustain life with kindness

You revive the dead with great compassion

You support the fallen

You heal the sick

You release the bound

You keep the faith for those who sleep in the dust

Who is like You, owner of strength?

Who compares to You?

King Who kills — but revives

And plants the seeds of redemption.

At the risk of sounding melodramatic, I felt like there was a seismic shift beneath my feet, that the clouds parted to reveal the sun that had been there all along.

Hashem, You’re forsaking me to die — but You revive me.

You will gather me up, envelop me, help me, love me back to life.

You will. I know You will.

With tears streaming down my face, in that sea of people, I closed my eyes and knew: I’m back. We’re back.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 813)