One of the largest reasons why I stopped writing in this space was because I didn’t know exactly how to word perhaps the most important change and part of my life. I didn’t know how to just boldly, clearly state it. In all honesty, I was scared to. I’m still somewhat scared, but my pride, intrigue, and excitement far outweigh that fear.
Ten months ago I started down the path of converting to Judaism.
Some will read that and say duh, either because they know me personally or they made an assumption based on some of my previous writing. Others will read that and be completely shocked. Frankly, I switch back and forth between the two myself. Judaism feels so natural yet so surprising of a choice for someone like me. Born to Irish Catholics, Judaism is a far stretch from my upbringing. But being the soul I am, it makes so much sense. So, why do I share this now? There’s an experience, perhaps two, that I want to work through with you.
This last Saturday, I attended Avodat HaLev, one of a few ways I’ve engaged with my synagogue. Translated as “work of the heart”, maybe even a “labor of love”, Avodat HaLev is a meditation service that takes place on the first Shabbat morning of each month at my shul. I’ve only gone twice, so I’m still learning how I relate to it, but something interesting happened this last weekend. I was seated in this circle formation of fellow congregants and my rabbi was getting ready to begin. He asked the collective group if anyone would like a Tallis, a prayer shawl, to wear during the service. He extended an offer of this white and black fringed shawl to the group. When he walked past me, he looked at me and said one word: “Soon”.
There are a few different parts of this that I want to dissect. First, lets talk about tallitot. My rabbi knows me well enough to know that wearing a Tallis is absolutely something I would do, though not a practice traditionally done by women. My interest in this practice is unique to me, as it has to do with my eyesight. While yes, tallitot are generally just pretty, it’s the tactile element of them that means the most. I can’t wait to feel a Tallis around me. I can’t wait to touch my own tzit-tzit, feel every knot. The physicality of the practice is just as integral to me as the spiritual. I love that my rabbi automatically assumes at least some of my interest in the practice. I can’t wait to, once I’m Jewish, engage with this tradition in a way that is both individual to me and reflective of the people I am joining.
In a matter of seconds, I was brought back to Yom Kippur. My rabbi graciously extended the invitation for me to play a pretty important piece on the violin for one of the holiday’s services. Afterwards, he gave me a hug. That hug was the first time I touched a Tallis, and in all reality it was for just a second, but touch to someone with limited sight only needs to be a second to take everything in. Amidst the many thoughts running through my head in that moment, one of them was “one day”. One day I would be the one wearing a Tallis. Now, “one day” has become “soon”. I love that evolution. I love my evolution throughout this process.
But now let’s talk about that one word. I’ll be honest, I have no clue what my rabbi meant when he said “soon”. Soon could be in two months when I’ve reached the typical one-year duration of my conversion. Most Reform conversions take twelve months. Or, soon could be another six months from now, if that’s when my conversion is meant to end. Heck, it could be longer than that. What I will say is this: I have never cared about anything more in my life than I do about my conversion. It is easily the hardest, most beautiful, and most complex thing I’ve ever done. That being said, I can’t wait to be Jewish. So when a rabbi, holding the piece of a tradition you greatly admire, says “soon”, you sure hope in that moment that he means two months from now. Not six. Not twelve. Two.
And then you think about the last ten months of work. The reading, the praying, the contemplating, the questioning, the relocation to be near your synagogue, the self-teaching of Hebrew, the dietary changes, all of it. You think about how if you can work that hard for ten months, you can do another six. And once the conversion is over, you’ll keep working for the rest of your life. I trust my rabbi, wholeheartedly. I trust that I can discuss with him my readiness to finish my conversion. And I trust that if he says we wait, there’s a reason. I’ll wait. Just as “one day” became “soon”, “soon” will become “sooner”, and eventually, it will become “now”.
So regardless of if it be two, six, twelve, or more months, it will certainly be “soon”. I love that one word holds so much subjectivity. I love that looking back at the last ten months, or the last twenty-two years of my life, or the last several thousand years of Judaism, any number that is spewed out can be “soon”. There are many things I love about the conversion process, this being one of them. I can take a split second moment from a service and turn it into endless thought and contemplation. And after sitting on it by myself, I’ll bring it to my rabbi for conversation. I love it. All of it.
So, how do you define “soon”? And how does that definition change when applied to the most important realms of your life? It is my sincere hope that I’ve prompted internal dialogue for you, perhaps some form of internal exploration. Thank you for walking through this with me. I’ll be back here again… soon.
Humble Chutzpah 