I have been struggling to write lately.  There is an essay I’ve been working on for too long now that just won’t “get there.”  It’s on a bit of a touchy topic, so I’m trying to thread the needle on how I approach it and make it at least a little funny.  I have not been successful.  My editor tore up my latest attempt yesterday and, as she did so, looked at me sideways and said, “Do better.”  She’s right. 

Yes, I’ve been busy and there’s been personal stuff going on that has occupied my thoughts.  Moreso, though, like most of us I’ve been increasingly distressed by all the negativity in the news.  Trish and I were talking about it on the way to synagogue this morning.  We both have this general crankiness going on that doesn’t seem to be relieved by anything.  We talked about what to do about it.  We have both been, shall we say, negligent with respect to exercise lately and know that a good hard workout goes a long way.  But you know what else helps?  Going to synagogue.

We are in the midst of the Jewish High Holy Days, which began at sundown this past Monday with the start of Rosh Hashanah and end at sundown next Thursday when we break the fast on Yom Kippur.  Except it doesn’t really end there.  We move directly into Sukkot and then Shemini Atzeret and then Simchas Torah.  Crunch time on the Jewish calendar!  But these 10 days, the Days of Awe, are for me the most important days of the year.  It’s when I take stock and think about the choices I’ve made, the ways I have behaved, and how I want to grow.  Compounding all this introspection is the fact that my father passed one week and one day after Yom Kippur 15 years ago.  Rosh Hashanah brings with it memories of sitting on a park bench after services, arranging hospice care aides to help Mom take care of him during the final steps of his journey. Shabbat Shuvah reminds me of getting on a plane to head home. Yom Kippur brings memories of holding Dad’s hand while he lay in his hospital bed in their apartment, praying Kol Nidre with him.  The High Holidays will forever be bound up in powerful memories of him even as his devotion to his faith and synagogue life are with me year round.

As such, this Shabbat, the one that falls between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, has become a favorite of mine. The best analogy I can think of is the morning after a big party in college when your crew would get together for a lazy brunch.  Everyone is tired.  We just spent a LOT of time together.  It was intense.  But there is something nice about hanging together on a “regular” morning, rehashing the previous festivities.  Shabbat Shuvah, as this Shabbat is known, means “Shabbat of Return.”  I won’t get into the Torah references that give it its name, but it also has that feeling of “returning to the scene of the crime.”  (Forgive me, Rabbi!)  It tends to be sparsely attended because we have just spent two full—and I mean FULL—days in synagogue together and we’ve got a biggy coming up (Yom Kippur).  Usually just the regulars attend.  The Rabbi and Cantor are a bit subdued, because they are tired and preparing for what is coming ahead.  The service is a “standard” Shabbat service, yet you add in a few prayers here and there that remind you that you are in the midst of Holy Week.  The service feels really short in comparison to the length of services on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur.  For some reason, though, it just feels…special.

Because attendance is somewhat light, I often get an honor on this Shabbat, meaning I am asked to take a role in the service.  This Shabbat Shuvah was no exception.  (Thanks, Andrea!)  I got in the habit many years ago of making little notes in my copy of the Chumash (the book that contains the Five Book of Moses along with commentary and other writings) of the honors I receive during services.  My copy is littered with notes from honors on Shabbat Shuvah:  carrying the Torah before or after the readings; aliyot, when you say blessings before and after a section is read; dressing the Torah to prepare to put it back in the ark.  Participation makes the service even more special.  Makes it “mine.”

There is something about the familiarity and rhythm of the service that calms me down and stills my mind.  More important are the messages from the prayers, Torah portions, and the Rabbi’s sermon that remind me that my world doesn’t have to revolve around the news cycle.  There is more that I control than I think, particularly around where I choose to put my focus.  Shabbat reminds me of what our covenant with God expects of me and that helps me reorder the priorities in my mind.  Who needs to hear “I love you” today?  Who needs a helping hand?  What can I be doing to fulfill my obligations around “tikkun olam”—healing the world?

Next weekend I’ll be down in Atlanta, recognizing my Dad’s yahrzeit—the anniversary (on the Jewish calendar) of his passing.  We’ll watch the livestream from my synagogue and say the Mourner’s Kaddish as the Rabbi reads Dad’s name from the list of those we’ll remember the following week.  I’m going to deprioritize fretting over the news cycle, at least for these next couple of weeks.  Then maybe I’ll be able to get myself back in the gym.  And finish that other essay!