Words that break through those barriers and blockages to make your tefillos soar

Coordinated by Michal Frischman

At Day’s End

Esther Kurtz

Words that resonate: “Hashem Hu Ha’Elokim”

Where they appear in the machzor: Ne'ilah

Where they take me: To the shul of my youth

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.

Dayan Brody’s voice, distinct, broke through the masses. It wasn’t the classic shaliach tzibbur smooth. Raw and broken, it was pure hartz and is still the soundtrack to my Yamim Noraim. His “Hashem Hu Ha’Elokim” would ring out, slice through my apathy and cynicism. It stripped me to my core, where I could call out earnestly, joining the chorus. And though most of the day felt frittered away and lost, I always came home on a high note, one I carried throughout the year if I listened closely to myself.

These days I don’t make it to shul on Yamim Noraim. When my children came around and made me stay home, I did not complain. I was happy to have a proper excuse not to go to shul. I didn’t need Rav Elya Lopian’s explanation that mothers are caring for Hashem’s children, that our labor is our tefillah. But life has a way of surprising even cynics. And I grew up, just a little. Now I want to be in shul but still can’t.

Come Yom Kippur, I load my little ones with toys and sour sticks and instructions to please let Mommy daven. It mostly works. Davening by yourself though, on your couch, surrounded by Magna Tiles and Lego, doesn’t feel like Yom Kippur. No. I’m not freezing or squished, no scent of besomim-infused lemons wafting through the air, or wads of used tissues piled on a table, no one singing under their breath while you mentally hum along. No sighs but your own.

By the time I reach Neilah, my little ones are in bed already, allowing me to finally focus, attention complete. With no distractions, there’s no excuse; I expect to feel it. Some years I do, other years I don’t. But always at the end, right before “L’shanah haba’ah b’Yerushalayim,” I close my eyes and conjure the tight shul on 51st street.

The sway comes first. Then the rhythm. And finally, Rabbi Brody’s choked cry, “Hashem Hu Ha’Elokim,” and I know it. Ein od milvado. My mind meditative, it transcends into that space. Once a year I can access it. The rest of the year I grasp at it.