Prayer Experiences

The death of a thousand cuts would have been preferable. I briefly considered crawling, until I realized that everyone would be able to see me anyway.

In those days there was only one car service in Crown Heights, and it was run by chassidim, a class of people for whom time means nothing.

I heard the voice of my three-year-old daughter Chanah calling to me, "Father, father, where are you? Father, father, answer me..."

There is the shapes of the letters themselves. The dance of black and white on the page. The delight in having these strange lines take on sound. The surprise when, all at once, four or five of these shapes group together to make a word with length, depth and dimension . . .

What does it mean to be indispensable? For most of my life I’ve asked myself that question.

She's only seven years old, and the doctors say she has lost her battle with cystic fibrosis, that she will live only a few more weeks. But for some reason, nobody has stopped praying...

As I mouth the words, my leg moves back and forth, rocking my newborn's carriage. One forefinger is pointing in my daughter's siddur, while my other arm worms its way through my young son's snack bag. You call this praying?

It was obvious that G‑d was there in the room. Because she was talking to Him.

Why are infertile women such a central theme of the High Holidays? Because there are few people in the world who will ever pray with the intensity of a woman who yearns for a child...

It was a simple question. But I don't know how to be simple, my training is in the complex...

Father is standing with his face to the wall, praying. But I do not understand: Why is he entreating more than all other worshippers? Why does he need G‑d’s mercy more than other people?