My Release

When I was little, I was not a fan of services. They were long and dull and always, always during my favorite TV shows. I spent the whole time checking my dad’s watch and flipping through the Siddur, attempting to appear pious, but really just counting how many pages of the service remained. Even after seven summers at a Reform sleep-away camp, my opinions didn’t change all that much—especially since services were right before breakfast. I mean come on. How focused can an eleven year old be when their stomach is doing a violent rendition of the Macarena?

That all changed about two and a half years ago. It was my sophomore year in high school. I was stressed, over-worked, and I just had surgery on my bum ankle.  The surgery took place a few days before Yom Kippur, and my parents were debating whether I would be well enough to attend services. Personally, with my track record of impatience during services, I think the bigger question was whether I’d be willing to go.

 Post-op, I was doped up on pain meds and completely exhausted. I was groggy and crabby, but, surprisingly, more than anything, I wanted to go to services. I’ll admit I was out of it for most of the service. But when the Torah processional started, I was completely lucid. Overcome with the need to touch my tallit to the Torah. When my fringes finally reached it, genuine serenity descended upon me.

Ever since then, services have become my release. Some people unwind with exercise, some with a glass of wine or a favorite TV show, but I do it with prayer. There is just something magical about being wrapped in my tallit; its soft hug a constant reminder of the covenant with G-d that I share with Jews around the world. As I start a new chapter in my life, one full of collegiate stress and temptations, I am grateful to have a healthy outlet, a synagogue and a community with which I can renew my spirit.

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