
As a child, Rosh Hashana felt like an endless marathon of prayers.
I’d sit on an uncomfortable folding chair in the overflow section of the social hall, which they’d open up to accommodate the extra crowd for the Yamim Noraim.
Fidgeting in my seat, I’d flip through the machzor, counting the pages left, then cutting that number in half for the English side—yet somehow, the end still seemed impossibly far away.
The words were foreign, the melodies a mystery. Yom Kippur was even worse. Not only were the prayers longer, but my favorite part of any Shabbat or Yom Tov—coming home to a delicious meal—was replaced with an empty table lit only by candles.
After the longest Maariv of my life, we’d return home, stomachs growling, to a meal that wasn’t coming.
But something started to shift as I grew older. These were no longer just long days in shul; I began to understand that Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur were days of judgment—days when our fate was decided.
The words mitzvot and aveirot started to make sense, but what didn’t make sense was how I was supposed to feel. I’d walk into shul on Rosh Hashana like a defendant walking into a courtroom for the first time, unsure of what the verdict would be.
I knew that the Mishna Berurah tells us to bathe and get a haircut for Rosh Hashana because we are confident we will be judged favorably. But despite the outward signs of confidence, inwardly I felt disconnected.
I was going through the motions, checking boxes, but I wasn’t connecting.
Years later, everything changed. As I immersed myself more in Torah and worked on my relationship with Hashem, I began to connect with the words I was saying.
They were no longer a never-ending string of meaningless syllables. They became meaningful words and songs, expressions of my desire to strengthen my connection with Hashem.
The more I learned, the more I worked on my Emuna and Bitachon, the more impactful and fulfilling the Yamim Noraim became. Suddenly, the long prayers I once dreaded became opportunities to connect, reflect, and rejoice.
There’s a story about Rav Saadiah Gaon that resonates deeply with me. Once, he disguised himself in simple clothes and stayed at a small inn, seeking to escape the honor and attention he usually received.
The innkeeper, unaware of his guest’s identity, treated him just like any other traveler. The next day, two of Rav Saadiah’s students arrived and asked the innkeeper if he had seen their Rebbe.
It was only then that the innkeeper realized who he had been hosting.
Shocked and embarrassed, the innkeeper ran to Rav Saadiah, apologizing profusely. “If I had known who you were,” he said, “I would have treated you with so much more honor!”
Rav Saadiah, surprised, replied, “But you treated me well. You were kind and hospitable. What more could I ask for?”
The innkeeper shook his head. “No, Rabbi. If I had known it was you, I would have treated you completely differently.”
That moment stayed with Rav Saadiah for the rest of his life. He would later say, “Every night before I sleep, I think to myself: ‘If I had known Hashem as I know Him now, I would have served Him completely differently.’”
If I had known Hashem when I was younger the way I do now, my Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur, my davening, my connection, and my enjoyment would have been profoundly different.
When we go through the motions—just checking boxes and doing what we think we’re supposed to do—it’s easy to miss the deeper connection. But when we understand what we are doing and really connect, everything changes.
The joy, the purpose, the feelings of belonging—they all fall into place.
Rabbi Moshe Weinberger tells a story that illustrates this beautifully.
A young man once entered a British poetry contest and delivered an impassioned reading of Psalm 23, Mizmor L’David, “Hashem is my Shepherd.” His polished English and dramatic flair impressed the audience, and they erupted in applause.
But then, an elderly Jewish man with a thick Yiddish accent stood up and asked to read the same Psalm. The crowd, expecting a disaster, sat back in skepticism. But as the old man slowly and emotionally recited the verses, the atmosphere shifted.
His reading moved the audience to tears.
After the competition, the young man approached him and asked, “How did you outdo me?” The old man smiled and said, “You know the words, but I know the Shepherd. He’s my Father and my friend.”
That story hits home for me. When you know the Shepherd, when you have a relationship with Him, every word of prayer, every action, becomes infused with meaning. And once I started building that relationship with Hashem, Rosh Hashana, and Yom Kippur transformed from days of dread into days of connection and joy.
Like the innkeeper, I sometimes wish I had understood this earlier. I wish I had started building my relationship with Hashem sooner, so I wouldn’t have spent so many years just going through the motions.
But that’s why I created the Elul 7-Day Sprint course. It’s something I wish I’d had when I was younger—something to help me prepare for the Yamim Noraim and enjoy them, not dread them.
The 7-Day Sprint is a course designed to help you start building or strengthening your relationship with Hashem in just one week. Every day, you’ll receive an email that walks you through steps to connect more deeply to your Creator. When you take this course during Elul, you’ll walk into Rosh Hashana ready to embrace the awe of the day, not with fear, but with confidence and joy.
Life is so much better when you have a relationship with Hashem. Going through the motions can weigh us down, but when we connect to our Source, we are lifted up. With a meaningful connection to Torah and to Hashem, you can truly be living the dream.
If you want to learn more about the course or to sign up visit Elul 7-Day Sprint.
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