As we stood at Har Sinai, we saw the thunder, heard the lightning. The lightning fades, but the sudden burst of clarity takes you forward. Six women share a moment that illuminated their path

Girls in the seventh grade are usually busy with hairstyles and shoes and homework. In whispered conversations with classmates they might ponder the shidduch date they aren’t supposed to know their brother is on, and whether or not their teacher is expecting.

I, on the other hand, was a tomboy busy with hockey and softball and homework. In whispered conversations with classmates we pondered the Abominable Snowman, Bigfoot, the Loch Ness Monster, and the Bermuda Triangle.

G-d was not excluded from these philosophical discussions. “Do you believe in G-d?” we asked one another. I was a secular Jewish kid in a class of mostly non-Jewish kids, all of us trying to make sense of the world.

I admitted to the others that I was scared of the Loch Ness Monster and terrified to go near the Bermuda Triangle. But what I didn’t share with anyone was that I did believe in G-d. I couldn’t see Him or feel Him, but I sensed His presence. Everywhere. All the time.

Every night, I’d lie awake in bed, clutching my teddy bear, and I’d talk to G-d. Well, I talked and He listened, but I felt safe.

This nightly conversation with G-d was a secret. If I couldn’t admit to anyone that I believed in G-d, I certainly wasn’t going to reveal that I spoke to Him! That just wasn’t something people did.

The Judaism I grew up with was cultural. I did the Hebrew school thing three times a week and was proficient at reading and writing Hebrew (though I didn’t understand much). We lit an electric menorah on Chanukah and ate matzah on Passover. I even went to Camp Ramah for two summers and got the Shabbat experience. But it was akin to learning about Korea for a class project in fifth grade: cultural, theoretical, informative.

Until I attended my first NCSY Shabbaton.

I was all of 11 years old. Dozens of people were dancing around the social hall, singing songs I’d never heard, whirling and twirling and clapping and smiling and waving their arms and whooping as if Mike Bossy had scored a hat trick (the only other time I’d seen this level of enthusiasm).

And they had a song for everything. They sang Bircas Hamazon and about Bircas Hamazon, they sang zemiros that ranged from a dirge to an Irish pub song, they sang a little ditty about getting up to wash, and another one about going back to the table. Fast, upbeat, perky songs that at age 11 didn’t make me roll my eyes. I was having loads of fun.

There were advisors everywhere who, I was sure, were there just for me. They listened. They told funny stories. They were smart and personable, and really into this stuff.

They were real.