Thirty-five years ago, I married the nicest Jewish man in the world. We met with the rabbi on the day of our wedding—under the chuppah, the wedding canopy. Obviously, it was not the time to mention the word mikvah, which he didn’t and, in fact, he never mentioned it. At the time, I didn’t know about women going to the mikvah (ritual immersion) before their wedding day.

We celebrated our Judaism in a one-dimensional wayMy three children grew up in a warm, loving, elegant home in an upscale neighborhood in Montreal. We celebrated our Judaism on all the holidays in a one-dimensional way—through eating and reciting the appropriate prayers on a very literal level, not knowing that there is a deeper, richer meaning to everything that we were doing. Synagogue figured in our lives on these occasions and at weddings, bar mitzvahs and circumcisions.

When I was 39, my youngest son had his bar mitzvah. That same year, through a number of intertwining circumstances, I discovered that Judaism belonged to me in a way that I never dreamed of. It was part of my past, my present and would figure—although I did not know it at the time—front and center in my future and my family’s.

I have kept a diary for the past 15 years. Thats a long time to record what happens in a person’s life. One day, I will get it organized and compile it into a book. For now though, I would like to share a few moments in my life.

July 1997: When I first entered this Chabad House, I sat in the last chair near the door to make a quick exit. Believe me, I did not have a clue what was flying here. I was a secular Jew whose main connection with a rabbi was on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur with about 1,500 other Jews. Not inspiring, I promise you. It has taken me nearly three years to be able to articulate what I have been feeling for a very long time.

The first Shabbat I came here, I was literally moved to tears. Not from the service because I was totally clued out. But by the Chassidic melodies, which I had never in my life heard. I still cannot believe that up until three years ago I knew none of these beautiful, haunting, soulful songs. I tried for a long time to put into words how I felt about these niggunim (wordless melodies), but I read something recently that summed it up perfectly. If I explain it to you, no matter how brilliantly, you won’t fully comprehend the experience of eating a piece of chocolate. But, if I give you a piece to taste, you will immediately know it. It doesn’t require any other illustration. In the same way, Chassidic niggunim go straight to the heart bypassing the intellect . . .

It felt as though I had been robbed of that part of my Jewish womanhoodOne day that same year, the rabbi came over to me and suggested, very gently, that perhaps I should consider going to the mikvah. My situation was that I had had a hysterectomy when I was in my 30s. I did not have a monthly cycle, would never experience what I had been hearing about—the excitement, anticipation and spiritual renewal that other women had the opportunity to have. What, I asked myself, was the point? I was not opposed to the idea, but I could not see the benefit of going once in my life. I held my true feelings in check until I got home.

I was angry at G‑d at that point in my life. Not only did it seem that He had held back the treasures of Judaism until I was 40, but that I also would never get a chance to experience, together with my husband, the beautiful and intimate ritual of mikvah. To me, it felt as though I had been robbed of that part of my Jewish womanhood. And so, when I got home that night, I cried bitterly.

A few weeks passed, and the rabbi broached the subject again. Because of our previous discussion, I had become acutely aware of mikvah and listened more carefully when my friends, who, like me, were discovering Judaism, spoke about it. They said they were scared; they voiced their fears as to how their husbands would react; they said they did not understand the concept of being “ritually impure.” Perhaps because it was not going to be a part of my regular routine, I did not view mikvah the way they did. I saw it as a privilege, a chance to spend time with G‑d alone, an opportunity to embrace who I was as a Jewish woman.

And so, I agreed to go. The weeks between the suggestion and my agreement had allowed my anger with G‑d to dissipate and gave me time to reflect and learn in depth about the mitzvah (the commandment) of mikvah.

I spoke with my husband and he agreed with me. It was something that we had to do as a couple—for ourselves, for our children and for our grandchildren.

I did the preparation as any woman would, even though I did not, as stated above, go through my cycle. My anticipation was at a heightened level; finally, it was time to go. I had read an exquisite book about, among other stories, the sacrifices that women had made in the not-so-distant past to go to the mikvah. I felt honored, fortunate, scared and unsure. I also felt that I was part of a chain, a link in the history of Jewish women.

The gates of Heaven are open for those few precious momentsEvery woman who goes to the mikvah has a different emotional experience. Some feel very little, some feel very spiritual, some in-between. While immersed in the mikvah, as well as when one lights Shabbat candles, one can pray to G‑d for anything. The gates of Heaven are open for those few precious moments.

When I finally went, I forgot to pray, instead concentrating very hard on immersing myself completely, from my toes to every strand of hair on my head. The water seemed to wash away the anger I had once felt. My tears mixed with the water in the mikvah in thankfulness to G‑d for bestowing upon me the honor of being born to Jewish parents, for bringing me to this moment.

I recently read an article which describes, beautifully, why one should go, even once to the mivkah.

For the postmenopausal woman, one final immersion in the mikvah offers purity for the rest of her life. Even a woman who has never used the mikvah before should make a special effort to immerse after menopause (it is never too late for a woman to do this even if many years have elapsed since her menopause), thus allowing for all subsequent intimacies to be divinely blessed.

The single greatest gift granted by G‑d to humankind is teshuvah—the possibility of return, to start anew and wash away the past. Teshuvah allows man to rise above the limitations imposed by time and makes it possible to affect our life retroactively. A single immersion in the mikvah late in life may appear insignificant to some a quick and puny act. Yet coupled with dedication and awe, it is a monumental feat; it brings purity and its regenerative power not only to the present and future, but even to one’s past. (Rivky Slonim, The Mikvah)

It seems easy for me. I went once, and it’s over. If one is younger, still having their cycle, mikvah plays a central role in their lives.

In 2002, I wrote: Faith is a word that always existed in my lexicon. Ten years ago, faith meant, for example, that I knew that the sun would rise in the morning and set in the evening. But the concept of faith on a personal level was distant from me. Truthfully, I didn’t even know to need faith. Things transpired in my life, and I coped or didn’t. What was there to have faith in?

Mikvah is a personal bequest from G‑d to Jewish womenFaith, as I have learned, means devotion. Not in the sense that I blindly follow, like a robot. Not, as many say, “oh, you found the ‘faith.’ ” Faith as a noun is static. But as a verb, it is constantly growing. Faith comes from my essence. It’s who I am, and it was always there.

There is no “one minute, I have to go and think about that.” No, “I don’t like this part I only like the other parts.” No, “it wasn’t supposed to be this way, so I’ll rethink the whole thing.” It means absolute, unwavering commitment. It means that G‑d has given me a gift and He would be so, so happy if I opened it.

Today, I have begun to understand about G‑d on my simple level, in a way that He has enabled me to. I have learned that not only does He need me, He put me here with His, metaphorically speaking, heart and soul. The reason He created the world and put me into it, as a Jew, is to intensify and speed up a time when the world will not only believe that there is a G‑d, but they will actually feel His presence.

Mikvah is a personal bequest from G‑d to Jewish women. When receiving a gift, one has a choice: open it or leave it closed for a while, until . . . until one is ready to see what’s inside. But sometimes, perhaps once in a lifetime, one should open the gift simply because of who it came from. No matter what’s inside.

Mikvah is a gift to yourself, to your husband, to your children, their children and so on, until the time when the world will be what G‑d wanted it—free of illness, of suffering, a world of peace and harmony. Knowing that observing the mitzvah of mikvah will bring the world closer to this day is extraordinary. Knowing that I can be a part of it is incredible. And finally, the benefits in this world are the icing on the cake.

Mikvah is like a soft, wordless Chassidic melody, going straight to the heart, bypassing the intellect. What a wondrous, remarkable place our world would be if every Jewish woman sang one song, with one voice. May we merit this moment without delay.