“Rabbi, I want to tell you a story that happened to me when I was boy, growing up in Eretz Yisrael”

Yoseph meandered around the front of the synagogue last Yom Kippur. It was after Mussaf, at the break. The rabbi — my husband — was sitting at his table in the far-left corner of the shul. He was in no hurry, as his usual custom was to recite Tehillim between the Tefillos.

The congregants understood that this was a good time to come up and share something, to spend a little time with him, perhaps to speak of lofty issues that disturbed peace of mind, a struggle, or inner conflict. Yom Kippur has this quality to it — it makes us introspective, forces us to engage in some soul searching.

Yoseph was waiting for the rabbi to finish his whispered conversation with another member. He kept looking at his hands, tried to stop them from relentlessly tugging at something, a siddur, a machzor, the white velvet cloth that covered the bimah. Finally, he put them into his pockets and waited.

At last, the rabbi called him over. “What’s the matter, Yoseph?” He gestured to him to pull up a chair. “On such a beautiful day, filled with kedushah, why do you look so troubled? How can I help you?”

“Rabbi, I need to tell you something…”

“Go ahead. I want to hear.” The Rabbi spoke softly, wondering what prompted this usually reticent man to come forth and speak to him.

“Rabbi, I want to tell you a story that happened to me when I was boy, growing up in Eretz Yisrael.”