During the Shabbat morning prayer service, I’m not always praying.

To clarify: When I’m leading Shabbat morning services, I am immersed in the poetry, music, and meaning of the service, and I offer it to others with my full presence.

But when I’m not leading, I’m usually worrying. About simple, practical matters. Have the Torah readers arrived yet? Does the greeter know that the beggar who just walked in is a weekday regular? Many people are wearing their sweaters; should I ask someone to close the windows?

Only one distraction has the power to make me pause: the Kedushah prayer. “Holy, Holy, Holy is the Lord of Hosts; the whole world is filled with God’s glory.”

Sometimes I cram three hours of reflective prayer into the three-minute-long Kedushah.

Part of the Kedushah’s power comes from my sense of the drama of the Amidah, the prayer that frames and includes the Kedushah.

As the Amidah begins, I imagine that I am trying to get an appointment with God, whom I imagine as a Very Important (and very busy) Person. To get in right away, I need to let the receptionist know that I am not a new client, and that I am in great need of what God offers. So I speak the first blessing, “God, you knew my ancestors,” and the second, “God, you work miracles.” And boom! Suddenly my appointment is on the calendar and immediately I enter the Divine Presence.

Part of the Kedushah’s power comes from the kavannah (intention) of our synagogue group. During the Kedushah, everyone focuses, everyone sings, everyone engages with the precious Holy Presence. During the Kedushah, nothing is left for me to worry about.

A few weeks ago, as my husband Chas was leading, I crammed about twelve hours of reflection into those three minutes.

There I stood, surrounded by light and song, feeling sad and bereaved.

“I miss my mom,” I thought.

“Oh come on,” I countered, “Many people have it much worse than you.”

“Oy!” I wailed silently, “Why do I always do this? Why immediately suppress every negative thought? And why with a pseudo-moralistic insistence that I don’t deserve to have negative thoughts? If I never think them, how will I deal with their content?”

A breakthrough came.

“Mom believed both sides. Yes, you can always find someone more troubled. And yes, everyone is entitled to be recognized as a person — even you.”

And then, I felt strong. “Mom could hold it all. I can hold it all, too!”

“Wow,” I thought, “All of a sudden, just because Mom said it, it’s a principle.”

“Maybe she just had inconsistent emotional reactions. But so what? Her ability to move between them expresses a principle of practical spiritual wisdom, a principle of her unique Torah. I can follow it and take comfort.”

“Hmmm,” I thought, “Often we approach Torah’s authority in just this way. We may feel emotionally and spiritually confused about something. But when we read about it in Torah, we feel validated, supported, and clarified.”

“Oh my. Now that Mom has died, she’s no longer just a person. Now she’s a holy book!”

Halleluyah! sang the group.

The Kedushah had come to an end. I opened my eyes and scanned the room. Windows were closed. The beggar had been welcomed with a siddur and a kippah. And all the Torah readers had arrived.

Image: templenashville.org