Yom Kippur was approaching; it was to be the
first time I would fast on that holiest of days. While eating my last meal for
the next twenty-five hours, I wondered what it would be like. The walk to the
synagogue seemed so strange. The streets were absolutely silent, with an
other-worldly serenity and calm.
The synagogue was enveloped in the same
remarkable peace and quiet I had felt walking through the streets. The cantor
began to chant a soft melody called Kol
Nidrei. Every Hebrew word seemed to penetrate my soul and cleanse it of all
residue. I was completely divested of anything from my past. Spiritually, I
knew what was going on, but to verbalize it would take years and much more
spiritual fine-tuning.
I sobbed uncontrollably throughout the entire length
of the singing. When I finally stopped, I looked around for Avigail. There
wasn’t a face that I recognized. A lovely lady standing next to me motioned
wordlessly, as if to ask, “Is there anything I can do?”
“No, I can’t explain this. There’s nothing
you can do,” I answered aloud. I didn’t know at that time that one shouldn’t
talk during Kol Nidrei. Baruch Hashem,
now I know.
To console me, my newfound friend put her
arm around my shoulder and gave me a warm embrace. That was exactly what I
needed. I looked at her, and we exchanged smiles. There was no need for words.
I couldn’t explain to her or anyone else what was happening inside of me.
Although it was the first time in my life I had heard the melody, it was as
though my neshamah knew Kol Nidrei. I had no idea at the time
that the prayer was a declaration of the nullification of past and future vows
and oaths, but at that moment I felt my soul experiencing something that I had
been awaiting my entire life. Much later, I figured out what was going on: by
nullifying all my previous commitments, I was enabling my soul to return to its
Jewish roots.
When I left the service that night, I wished
the other congregants a “chatimah tovah,”
blessing them that they would be inscribed and sealed in the Book of Life for
the next year. I felt I was saying it as a Jew. I walked down the street
knowing that I would never forget that night as long as I lived. The peace that
lingered in the air on my way back to the hotel surpassed all my understanding.
I couldn’t hear a bird; there were no planes, no cars. Even the leaves on the
trees weren’t moving. I said to myself very softly, “I know who my God is. This
is what it will be like when Mashiach comes. The peace of the Almighty is in
this place.”
The essence of my new realization gripped
me. In my bliss, I began reciting the prophet Isaiah, chapter 40, which I knew
and loved: “Every valley will be raised, and every mountain and hill will be
lowered; the crooked will become straight and heights will become valley. The glory
of God will be revealed, and all flesh together will see that the mouth of God
has spoken.” I felt those holy words depicted what had happened in my life.
Every valley — the doubts and worries — had been raised. The mountains — the
haughtiness, the feeling of pride — had been lowered. Crooked places
represented the places I had traversed where I hadn’t belonged. The heights of
conceit had been leveled to valleys. Only God’s glory was imminent in my life.
Only Hashem’s glory!
As I continued to bask in the serenity and
peace, it suddenly occurred to me that I had been headed down this path my
entire life. It had taken me forty-eight years to search and seek out the
truth. I thought of all the endless researching and running to find
cross-references in order to understand Bible verses. The years of sleepless
nights spent pondering the Bible and things that seemed unfathomable had
culminated in a beautiful crescendo with the sound of Kol Nidrei, the haunting chant that struck the chords of my heart.
I knew that my God was real! It all made sense — the little game I used to play
when I first started studying the Bible. My childish game of Abraham being my
great-grandfather, and my walking hand-in-hand with him the breadth and length
of the Holy Land, had come true. The event I had hoped for my entire life had
arrived.
The words of Ruth to Naomi which I had read
so many times before in my Bible were now my words: “For wherever you go, I
will go; where you lodge, I will lodge; your people are my people, and your God
is my God.” The Jewish people were my people.
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