My Ba'al Teshuva Story: Part 2, In The Beginning...

The first parsha in the Torah, in the book of Genesis, is Bereishis, which describes G-d's creation of the world. One of the most unique and inherently beautiful aspects of Creation is that it was not and is not a one-time occurrence. G-d did not merely whip up six days worth of recipes for a functioning world and all its life, works and components. Rather, G-d created these facets and continues to create them in each and every moment, infusing this world and all of its components with G-dly energy and life again and again. What does this have to do with my story, you ask? Fabulous question (even if you weren't actually asking it)!
     In the beginning...
...there was a little girl (me), walking around a Jewish nursery school in Albany, NY with a big question. I had heard of this G-d character on a regular basis, but I wanted to know where He was. I remember looking for G-d everywhere. Was He on the playground? Was He in the fallen Autumn leaves on the front yard of the school? Was He in the light shining in through the stained glass windows of the synagogue sanctuary? Was G-d in the Shabbos candles we lit on Friday as we sang songs and shared challah? I could feel G-d's presence in my uncontrollable urge to smile as I played on that playground or as we walked through those Autumn leaves. I was sure I could see G-d in the beauty of the rays of sun shining up onto the bima where I sat, so small and secure with my knees tucked up to my chin and my thumb in my mouth. I was certain I could hear G-d in the beauty of singing songs that to this day bring such joy to my soul. For sure, G-d was somewhere in those burning Shabbos flames, and for sure, like that fire, G-d was Something we could not touch. Even at a young age, without the assistance (or hindrance) of much outside influence, I had an intense yearning to find, understand, and feel G-d's presence.
The pintele yid is a Yiddish term for Jewish spark; the flame that burns eternally in each and every Jew. No matter how close to or far from Yiddishkeit and Torah observance we are, that flame burns. It may be a great raging fire, it may be a minuscule glowing ember. Nonetheless, it burns eternally. It is the part of our soul that causes us to cleave on some level to traditions and wisdom that are thousands of years old and at the same time, ageless. I've heard from time to time a person say of another Jew, "he is so far from Yiddishkeit" or "she is so removed from the ways of the Torah." From a Jewish perspective, this is not possible. No Jew is so far or removed from Judaism. The fact of the matter is, even the tiniest glowing ember is sufficient to start a great and raging flame. Given the proper kindling and environment, even the littlest spark is enough!

I was a Hebrew school drop-out. I never learned as a child to read Hebrew. I never learned to pray. I thought when it came to the ways of Jewish practice that I knew very little at all. I became keenly aware of this around the age of twelve or thirteen when many of my peers at school were going through their bar/bas mitzvah. I could sit in the synagogue with the very same book everyone else around me had, but all I could do was say part of the shema. I don't recall being disappointed that I wasn't have a bas mitzvah or the party to go with it. I do recall feeling ashamed that I couldn't pray. I think (or hope) I hid this well. I scrounged around my parents' bookshelves for anything and everything Jewish. I found my father's copy of Herman Wouk's This Is My G-d collecting dust on the shelf. It was inscribed with his name inside and his fifth grade Hebrew school class in the early 1960s. As you can see from the photo to the left, this book was a 29-week best seller. It is not necessarily the type of literature a typical twelve year old would seek or have trouble putting down, particularly a twelve year old who HATED to read. I, nonetheless, read that book from cover to cover. I learned as much as I could about the ways and practices of our people. All of a sudden, I found out that this shema I remembered was supposed to be said three times a day. I didn't even know the whole thing, but I tried to say it anyway. I begged my parents to keep a kosher home again (as early on our home was kosher and the practice had since been given up). I gave up television shows on Friday nights and Saturday and opted to read instead.  I paid closer attention than ever to my grandparents and even attended their Orthodox shul for the very first time.
I had no clue what I was doing. I didn't even know enough to ask how to begin. After my family moved from New York to Massachusetts, we joined a Reform synagogue for the first time in years and I signed up for Hebrew High School classes once a week. I enrolled in a Hebrew reading class thinking I would learn to read. I found out right away that everyone else already knew how to read! The instructor handed out materials and began to go around the table to have everyone read. When it got to my turn, I recognized maybe one letter. I was mortified. I was enrolled instead in an art class down the hall. My parents would take me to services on Friday night and I would watch fervently what everyone else was doing in the hopes that I might figure out how to pray. To an extent, this worked. However, more and more I felt ashamed of how little I knew. If only someone would have said to me what I truly know and feel to be true now: that little spark within me was more than enough! I just needed to proper kindling and environment to help that spark reach its full potential!
Throughout high school, in the midst of poor health and much turmoil, I drifted back and forth between reaching toward and running from Yiddishkeit. Sure, I felt a connection and fire within me during those Friday night services. When we read Psalm 23, I felt (and to this day still feel) an intense stirring within me that could not be ignored. And yet, it was fleeting. Just as soon as that feeling emerged it seemed to disappear altogether. Seeking that feeling of connection in human relationship seemed an easier route to take. My yet-to-be-diagnosed sleep disorder was affecting me in such a way that as a teen, I literally could not stay awake much of the time. I slept through school, I slept through life and when I was awake, I felt intensely disoriented and disconnected.
I thought it might be easier to place my trust in man rather than in G-d. If my feeling of connection to G-d was so fleeting, then perhaps people could make me feel connected all of the time. This path was inherently bound to disappoint and hurt. I could outright state my disbelief or unwillingness to accept the existence and presence of G-d and yet, it would always surprise me how inexplicably easy it was to 'forget' that and find myself caught in prayer. G-d always seemed to show up in moments of agony or fear, whether it was a hospital room, a family crisis, a doctor's visit or a decision in the fall of 2003 to leave home with a one way ticket. Those were the moments I found myself both comforted and startled by how easy it was to again know that G-d's presence was before me. Those were the times that it was both calming and overwhelming to know I was not alone...

*     *     *

To be continued in Part 3