Originally published at Medium on February 13, 2020
I loved going to our local Synagogue as a young girl.
By the time I was eight, I would get dressed in my prettiest clothes and black patent leather shoes every Shabbat morning, and set off for the short walk, two suburban blocks, to Synagogue — Shul — alone, while my mother stayed home and cared for the younger children.
I loved the quiet at shul, something that I didn’t get very often at home as the oldest of eight children.
I loved listening to the tunes of prayers, the ancient melody of the Torah reading and following along in my prayer book.
I felt so adult-like, connected to a community and like a really good girl.
I never questioned why I had to go upstairs and pray in a separate room.
It was just the way it was.
Men went downstairs, women went upstairs.
Men prayed out loud, women prayed silently.
Men read from the Torah Scroll, women listened.
Men said the blessings, women responded Amen.
Men danced during the holidays, women watched.
Men made up the required quorum, women were the observers.
My father left early in the morning for Shul, as was expected of any self-respecting man in the community. I never saw him when I arrived, as he was downstairs in the men’s section, while I walked up the two flights of stairs to the women’s section, unseen.
I was often the first in the women’s section in Shul and would sit quietly in the back, gingerly settling down on the hard gold-rimmed burgundy upholstered chairs, my small legs barely reaching the scratched wooden floor.
Since I was only able to hear the men praying through the hole cut in the wall, I would dutifully follow the lead of the Rebitzen who sat at the front of the room, and I would stand up when she stood up and sat down when she sat.
When I got married at 18 and started having children, getting to Shul became a lot more complicated, and less peaceful. But I still went regularly, proudly beaming when I would hear the voices of my husband and sons praying, their voices wafting up through the small curtain covered windows.
I knew with certainty that it was through their prayers that I would get my reward in the world to come.
My teachers and Rabbis had made it very clear to me that my role as a woman was to support my husband and sons and only by doing that would I be able to connect with the Divine.
It was only after a tumultuous divorce that I began to question those beliefs.
Is this the way it has to be?
Is my role as a woman only to support the men in my life?
Is there really no place for me to connect to the Divine with my own public prayers or reading of the Torah?
It wasn’t until I was 45 that I experienced a prayer service as a full-fledged member of an egalitarian congregation.
The tunes of the prayers were familiar and the ancient melody of the Torah Reading brought me back to my young childhood, but instead of being an invisible observer I was now an active participant.
I wasn’t listening silently. I was praying out loud.
When I stood for the first time in front of the Torah Scroll and recited the proscribed blessing, I felt a virtual tremor go through my body.
No longer was my connection to the Divine based on my relationship with a man.
I was fully present in my own power and strength connecting with the Divine in a way that felt just right.
“This is mine too.”
I heard a voice inside speak loudly and clearly.
I connect and celebrate with the Divine in my full feminine self. My connection with the Divine is too precious to be funneled through another human being.
In considering how to celebrate my grandmother’s yahrtzeit, the anniversary of her death this month, I could think of no more appropriate memorial than fully embracing my connection with the Divine as a woman of the Jewish Faith.
I spent hours studying the ancient melodies of the Torah reading and will stand in front of a quorum of men and women and read from the ancient Torah Scrolls using those bygone melodies, no longer silent and no longer invisible.
I stand and represent not only my eight-year-old self but also my grandmother, great-grandmother and all of my female ancestors who for centuries sat alone, quietly in the women’s section, silently following along as the men prayed.
I am their unspoken voices, proclaiming loudly and clearly our roles as bearers of the tradition, carriers of the Holy Words of the Divine and connectors of the faith.
