The
following article was published in the Times of Israel by
Shira Zewbner, a public relations consultant and writer living in Jerusalem.
___________________________________
We’re on the countdown to Rosh Hashanah, which for me means
preparing delicious menus for our lunch guests, trying to figure out how to
make vegan honey cake for my youngest (and egg allergic) daughter, writing New
Year greeting cards for our family and friends in the States, and making a
bunch of will-you-forgive-me phone calls. It also means a trip to the
dry cleaner, possibly buying a new frock for myself, and setting aside money
from our budget to give to charity before the yom tov rolls in. I
look at my to-do list with excitement; the High Holy Days have always been my
favorite of the Jewish holidays. With one, minor exception: the prayer part.
Recently, I had an interesting conversation with my 3
1/2-year-old. We were talking about all of her favorite topics: school,
friends, and fairies. And then, out of the blue, while going off on some
tangent about princess dresses, and shoko, and what I’m making her for
breakfast, she blurted out, “but, Mommy, you don’t daven (pray)!”
Instinctively, I looked toward the living room bookshelf, at
the rows of unused Artscroll siddurim, and declared, “Of course I daven!”
She shook her tiny pigtails back and forth and insisted that
I do not pray. She exclaimed, “you do not daven like Daddy does.”
And she was right. I do not pray like her Daddy does.
Funny, but when my husband and I were dating, I insisted
that I wanted our children to grow up watching him daven. I told him that
it was important to me, that our kids see him put on tefillin, drape himself in
his tallit, and use a siddur to daven each and every morning. And, to his
credit, he has done just that since the day our eldest child was born. Our
children have frequently been in his arms while he davens three times a day;
they have grown up playing with the tzitzit on his tallit, tugging gently on
his tefillin while asking questions about his morning ritual, and sitting
quietly on his lap as, together, they say the Shema.
But, as I stressed the importance of our children seeing
their Daddy pray every day, I completely neglected to consider what they would
think about Mommy and prayer.
Truth be told, prayer and I have a unique relationship
that’s far too complicated for me to explain to our toddlers.
I don’t think I have ever connected with what I refer to as
“organized” prayer. From a young age, I merely went along with the davening
process. It was part of the curriculum of my yeshiva, and I dutifully did as I
was told. As I got older, prayer became a burden. My parents would insist,
Sunday mornings, that I daven before eating breakfast. And,
dutifully, I did what I was told. But the words on the page didn’t make me feel
any closer to my Maker. In fact, I didn’t feel anything!
Sure, I turned to prayer when I really wanted something.
Like dance lessons (never happened), a family vacation (nope, still nothing),
and a hurricane to come and cancel the final I wasn’t prepared for (you can
guess the likelihood of that one panning out). I also remember davening so hard
to get into the Machal program at Michlalah, for my seminary year after high
school. And, when I was accepted, I realized that I had to really work on
developing that connection with tefillah.
And I really worked hard. I carried my siddur and mini
“Tehillim” with me everywhere. While on the bus, I would say a chapter of
Tehillim. I started davening three times a day, whereas back in the States I
would barely make it through morning prayers. I believed in the
idea of mitoh sh’lo lishma ba lishma: that a deed, even if
performed without the proper intent, may eventually still lead to a performance
with the proper intent. I truly believed that, if I went through the motions,
and said the words on the page, I would feel the connection.
It just never happened.
And, while at Michlalah, I took the tefillah class
with Rabbi Nissel. It was an early Sunday-morning class that I was frequently
late to and often missed. But what I do remember out of the class was learning
thattefillah was comprised of three things: shevah (praise), bakasha (requests)
and hodaya (thanks/gratitude). So, technically, if I incorporate all
three of these elements when praying, then I was “doing it right.”
When seminary was over, and I was back in New York, I slowly
stopped praying with a prayer book. Instead, when I wanted to have a
conversation with God, I just did. In the privacy of my own room, sometimes
without even saying a word out loud. I made sure to start off with praise, then
put in my request, and then ended the “conversation” with my thanks and
gratitude. And to this day, that’s how I pray. And it worked for me — until my
daughter accused me of not praying.
As a mom, I’m responsible for educating my children and must
be a role model to them. Do I want them to see me have my “conversations” with
God? Or do I dust off my Artscroll siddur and, once again, go through the
motions so that they see that I’m praying? I honestly don’t know what to do.
What I do know is that this Rosh Hashanah holiday, they will
see me with my prayer book in hand. I will sing to them the melodies I grew up
with, and teach them how to sing along.
And, during “Unetaneh Tokef” of Mussaf on Rosh Hashanah and
Yom Kippur, I will close my eyes and say the only words that I have ever had a
connection with in all of liturgy. And pray that, for another year, we are not
a fleeting dream.
A man’s origin is from dust and his destiny is back to dust.
At risk of his life he earns his bread; he is likened to a broken shard,
withering grass, a fading flower, a passing shade, a dissipating cloud, a
blowing wind, flying dust, and a fleeting dream.
