I don’t know that she’d call me a “friend.” I hug her when I see her in schul. We served on a committee together. I know her job and her degree, the number of kids she has, but not their names or exact ages.
She had surgery last week. Not good surgery. Scary surgery. The community is in shock. Uncertainty. Fear. Unbelievable.
I recited T’hillim for her. I have recited T’hillim before; in schul, during labor, at the cemetery for my grandparents. But never like this.
Her close friends sent a list: a chart of names and numbers of which T’hillim which person was assigned to chant on her behalf. Some names I knew, most I didn’t. And there was my name among so many others’: Mayim. 27-30.
We were told to recite these T’hillim at the same time. The time when a mask would be placed over her face, over her dimples I envy every time she flashes them.
At the same time.
At the same time on the same morning, we recited T’hillim for her. Studies indicate that people being prayed for can recover better, faster than those with no one praying for them.
Are the prayers themselves powerful? Do they reach the heights of G-d in Heaven? Or does the fact that you know that there are people who pray for you keep you going differently?
Is it the community that heals you because you know they are there for you, with you?
My T’hillim were powerful. Psalm 29 describes Mayim Rabim; the vast waters. Something struck me as I chanted: “This is my psalm” since my name is featured so prominently.
And then I realized: no. It’s not my Psalm.
It’s her Psalm. When we all rise up together, it becomes her Psalm. This is her Psalm.
What does the voice of G-d look like upon vast and mighty waters? What does it sound like? What does it feel like?
The voice of G-d looks like a chart of names and numbers.
The voice of G-d sounds like a million people chanting.
The voice of G-d feels like shock. And uncertainty. And fear.