By Hayley Geiger, Staff Writer
Most of life is made up of choices, a gift from God that we call “free will.” As we grow up, our choices stop feeling theoretical and start feeling more important than ever. We begin to think about who we are and want to become, the type of life we want to build, and even the type of family we want to raise.
By the time I arrived at Stern, I had already “graduated” from Seminary, but somehow a wave of culture shock still hit me. Everywhere I turned, there were frum Jews. It was like Torah was spilling out of the walls, and suddenly I was living in a world totally foreign to anything I had ever known. And still, in this new world, I found people who amazed me — students and teachers, all with full schedules and demanding lives, who still made time to study, teach, learn, and grow. Torah really tasted so sweet at Stern, and I wanted everything all at once — to pull every book off the shelf and absorb everything. I met an unforgettable young woman who taught me how to read Hebrew and pray, and for the first time in my life, I was praying Birkat Hashachar (the morning blessings) in Hebrew. I can’t even explain it properly, but I felt like everything in the universe was so connected to God, and I was getting closer and closer to Him. As if I’d cracked open a new layer of living, and there were sparks of Heaven I could actually bring into this world through what I think, say, and choose to do.
And then, a wave of new realities hit me.
As I got comfortable, the fire and excitement dimmed. I realized my mitzvot had become habits rather than opportunities for connection. I began to see how quickly something so precious can become normal. I had worked so hard to become this version of myself, and somehow I was already taking parts of it for granted. But I remembered something I prayed for before leaving seminary: to always feel the fire of Torah burning within me and to never stop learning.
Slowly, I understood where the distance came from. I wasn’t genuinely talking to Hashem anymore; rather, I was repeatedly reciting words in a language I didn’t understand. Mitzvot turned into routines instead of opportunities for connection. The hardest part was that I genuinely believed I was doing everything right — and on the outside, I was. But Judaism cannot exist only in my mind; I want to live it, breathe it, and love it. What I needed was the introspection that Chodesh Elul (the Hebrew month of Elul) demands.
These past few Shabbats, I have been reading the parshiyot of sefer Devarim, where Moshe warns Bnei Yisrael that their hearts will stray from Hashem’s commandments. Maybe my “spiritual comedown” was not new or unique. Maybe it’s a centuries-old struggle that Jews have faced for generations, yet one that I feel is seldom spoken about.
I want my Judaism to be a grounding and reassuring way of life. I don’t want to keep my Jewish ideals in my mind; I want to live them. I don’t want Shabbat to be defined by everything I cannot do; I want to experience the beauty of the world becoming quiet, where Hashem’s Presence fills my home. I want my brachos (blessings) to be a recognition of the privilege of pausing and acknowledging all that Hashem has placed in my hands. I don’t want the boundaries of Torah to feel like limitations; I want to understand that sometimes a boundary isn’t there to hold me back, but to protect something too precious to be lived carelessly.
Every mitzvah (positive commandment) is a way I can bring Hashem’s spark into my life. I’m not just a girl; I’m a bat melech! We are all children of the King, and what we have been given is not simply a responsibility to carry or commands to fulfill; it is an inheritance to cherish. I want to live my Judaism through this lens.
Moshe was right in that our hearts will stray, because in order to do teshuva, we must recognize where we are and where we want to go. I need to recognize how far I have strayed and want to improve. I realize that the relationship with and spiritual connection to Hashem depend on the effort I put into seeing Him in everything I experience and talking to Him from my heart. This means giving Him my anxieties, knowing he’s always looking out for me, trusting in His process, and centering my life around His guidance. That’s the Jewish life I choose, and it’s a lot to live up to!
So when I feel far, disconnected, and out of touch, how do I make this choice feel like no question at all? If not for myself, then for my children? How could we make Torah so beautiful, Judaism so alive, that when the moment of choice arrives, it feels like there was never another option?
Well, I think the only way to do that is by building Him into my life, through how I see the world, the words I hear and say, the way Shabbat feels, how I think and speak about mitzvot, and how I speak to Hashem. It really all comes down to my own personal decision to connect. A conscious choice I must make every single day.
And over time, every Jewish Neshama (soul) will come to decide whether Judaism is simply a list of what we cannot do, or a life filled with meaning, belonging, holiness, and love — a life so complete that nothing else could replace it. We are children of the King who has already given us more than the world could ever offer. I must live my Judaism with this in the front of my mind to really take in the privilege of such a foundation for life. With Hashem’s help, all of Klal Yisrael and I will live our Jewish lives with the utmost intention and mindfulness of this extraordinary privilege and opportunity.
Photo Credit: Unsplash