I never liked the concept of praying for something, as a petition. I intended to pay my own way, to put skin in the game, to earn the grace I sought. I had plenty of tools, resources and privilege already and it seemed like hubris to ask for more. And I never figured a transaction would come out in my favor anyway. If the Universe had meant me to have a close and healthy relationship with my sister, surely that would have happened by now.
So my prayers were always soft – an opening. Usually just two words: May I…. May I…. May I. I figured the Divine One knew our bitter history and would intuit whatever I left unsaid. After so many years of guilt and failure, I did not believe that another detailed accounting of flaws and missteps was the key to change. Nor another promise to try harder. While I had been able to grow in positive ways in other relationships, the thick scars on this one felt stuck to my bones.
The annual cycle brought familiar emotions. During Selikhot I was reminded that Adonai was surely more forgiving towards me than I was towards myself. Keep going! I might hear Her whisper.
Later, when we stood for the Amidah, the traditional phrases muttered past me. Except that every time I repeated kadosh, kadosh, kadosh I would, without fail, weep. As for the rest of that upright period, I usually opted to eschew the text. I would clutch the book to my chest, my silent Amidah not only voiceless but wordless. I felt the weight of my feet on the ground, my carriage holding me vertical, while I dropped my shoulders, loosed my jaw and brow. The familiar sensation of regathering myself prompted the question, Why am I here?
Coming into the Vidui confession of sins and the Tashlikh casting-off of sins, I would try to be brutally honest with myself about my part in the dynamic I prayed to be released from. It took quite a few years to admit that in fact I had played a part. And even after conceding that the street was two-way, I still felt pretty righteous: surely my behavior, as unattractively brooding, punitive, and rigid as it was, was justified by the offenses that had wounded me to the core and triggered our intractable conflict.
When it was time for Yizkor I would often feel embarrassed. Surely my ancestors were sick of our tiresome unresolved history. Come on! I imagined our hardworking grandparents and great-grandparents saying. We took risks you cannot dream of. We made sacrifices you would never have been able to stomach. You’ve had it so easy. Is this what you’re stuck on? Can’t you figure it out? Won’t you honor us by burying the hatchet?
As the doors were closing during Neilah, I would be lightheaded with the fast of the day and the fervor of the moment. I would often feel a bit desperate – Am I okay? Have I tried hard enough? Don’t give up on me! – at the thought of any gate, never mind a pearly one, being slammed in my face. As a professional I prided myself on meeting every deadline. But as a person mucking about in human relationships, my obstinacy could well be the thing that left me on the dock, arms crossed, while that lovely ship sailed away without me.
So I was shocked to my core when, soon after High Holidays last year, my relationship with my sister changed in a single day. That rock did contain blood after all. The animosity between us dissolved, the distance evaporated.
I felt I was moving underwater, held to the sea floor by the weight of the ocean above, like a tight hug, a Divine reminder that I was in an entirely new space, one where the gravitational forces were of a different order, where I was free of the need for the usual kind of breath. My eyes widened at the sight of the unusual life forms dwelling there. It was grace, beautiful and life-affirming, and in the months since then I have been grateful beyond measure.
The price, however, is very, very dear – in fact, a death sentence – as these changes were precipitated by her diagnosis with an incurable illness.
As summer ripens and we enter the month of Elul, I am approaching the High Holidays with new questions, ones I never thought I would be in a position to pose. What now? How do I make the most of this opportunity to share the last chapter of her life? The sadness I feel for our lost decades may never go away. But the joys and sorrows of right now are all that matters. I find myself reaching out to her with the shyness of a freshman getting to know her first roommate. At the same time, her voice, her walk, her laugh, her tastes, her gestures resonate with the deep familiarity that’s only known by people who grew up in the same house.
A supplication is not a transaction, but a wish may have a cost. These days I just keep reaching deeper for the coinage to pay it. Stretching to make room for whatever may arise. Another flight cross country, another friendly text, another medical report, another video chat to share bits of easy, saved-up news, each connection sweetened with all the goodwill I possess. Because life is unimaginably short, and an answered prayer is just the beginning.
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