Finding Space, Part I: Entering Yom Kippur

On Sunday evening, I walked up the stairs of my apartment building. Our stairwell opens directly onto the main street, and when I stepped outside, the scene was captivating.

The street was flowing with people dressed in white. Children, mothers, fathers, yeshiva students, grandparents. Every age and every kind of Jew was represented, all walking with purpose, trying to reach synagogue in time for Kol Nidrei, the opening service of Yom Kippur.

There was movement everywhere, but it did not feel rushed. The city seemed to be moving together toward something.

I arrived at shul with my family already overwhelmed by the enormity of this Yom Kippur. Then I prayed.

Our little synagogue was packed. There was barely an inch of open space in the building. Some of my children were pressed close against me while the voices of friends and strangers filled the air.

When I say that I prayed, what I really mean is that we prayed.

Somewhere in the back-left corner of the shul, we swayed, jumped, sang, and poured out our hearts and souls. For those hours, we became a single organism. Each person had a different voice, a different story, and a different reason for being there, but we stood together as one.

The evening service lasted just over three hours. It honestly felt like fifteen minutes.

When it ended, we wished one another a gut Yom Tov and stepped back onto the street.

My kittel was soaked with sweat. My cheeks were slightly stained with tears. Once again, I was overtaken by the scene before me.

There was not a single car on the road. The spaces normally occupied by cars, trucks, buses, and motor scooters were now filled with people. Children walked down the middle of the street. Families lingered together. The usual noise of Jerusalem had been replaced by footsteps, quiet conversation, and the lingering awe of Yom Kippur.

Inside the synagogue, there had not been an inch of physical space to spare. Yet somehow, in that crowded room, I had found space to pray.

Outside, the streets had emptied of traffic and made space for something else: stillness, holiness, and the unmistakable feeling that an entire people had paused together.

Perhaps finding space does not always mean being alone. Sometimes it means being surrounded by others so completely that, for a few hours, the boundaries between us begin to disappear.

And this was only the beginning.

To be continued in Part II.