By Sherry Christiansen (Twin Cities, MN)
The medical-grade Velcro of my abduction sling made a sharp, sacrilegious ripping sound every time I adjusted my weight in the sanctuary seat. It was Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement, and I was exactly three weeks post-op from a traumatic shoulder reconstruction.
Although I wasn’t raised Jewish and knew very little about my maternal family’s Jewish heritage growing up, my spiritual journey eventually led me to a year-long conversion and a deep love for Jewish life and tradition.
I had developed a deep passion for Jewish prayer and tradition. The rhythm of the calendar. The meaning woven into each holiday. Even time itself seemed to carry purpose.
Just a month earlier, I had been the “perfect” conversion student—learning Hebrew transliteration for daily prayers, reading everything I could get my hands on about Jewish history and traditions, and even scouting apartments within walking distance of the synagogue so I could finally embrace a fully observant life.
Of all of the Jewish holidays, Yom Kippur drew me in the most. I loved reading about how the holiday helps us transcend our limitations, mistakes, and ego, offering a day where the evil inclination loses power. In Kabbalah, the esoteric side of Judaism, Yom Kippur connects Jews with their “neshama (soul),” also considered one’s truest essence or “spark of God.”
On a personal level, I was learning that Yom Kippur is a call to stop and take account of who I had been and who I wanted to become. Although it would be my first experience celebrating this holiest day, I intuitively knew that it would be significant, perhaps even life-changing.
Then came the fall. What should have been a simple misstep while watering plants turned into a sudden, forceful surge forward, as if pushed, sending me nearly nine feet from my patio onto the unforgiving concrete driveway. The injury was severe. Surgery followed. Just like that, the version of myself who had everything under control was gone.
The first thing that crossed my mind when I learned I needed surgery wasn’t the operation itself. It was the High Holy Days. I had worked too hard to let surgery pull me away from the most meaningful months of my conversion.
At first, I planned to postpone the surgery until after the holidays. My orthopedic surgeon quickly put an end to that idea. By the time I saw him, nearly two months had already passed since the injury, and he was concerned that waiting any longer could increase the risk of complications and compromise the outcome of the surgical repair.
It was my first real lesson in trusting that Hashem’s timing and my own plans were not always the same. Jewish law teaches that preserving life and health takes precedence over nearly every other commandment. So I took a deep breath, placed the decision in Hashem’s hands, and scheduled the surgery just days before Rosh Hashanah.
I convinced myself I would be “recovered” in time to fully participate in the High Holy Days. I was wrong. Recovery would mean months of pain, an immobilizing sling, physical therapy, sleepless nights, exhaustion, and the emotional weight of losing my independence. Still, I was determined not to let the injury keep me from experiencing these sacred days. I arranged transportation, coordinated with my mentor, and did everything I could to be present for the most meaningful moments of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur services.
On Yom Kippur, many wear white to reflect purity, humility, and forgiveness, and to remind us that everyone stands equal before God. I stood among a sea of congregants dressed in white, swaying quietly in rhythm. The swaying, often done during prayer, helps bring the body into the words, deepening the focus, particularly during intense moments of reflection. The effect was powerful.
But I was unable to join that rhythm.
Not just because this was my first Yom Kippur as a conversion candidate, but because I literally could not keep up.
The congregation rose for the Viduy, the confessional prayer, the core ritual of the service where we name our mistakes together while gently tapping the chest.
As the prayer opened, I stood along with everyone else. My surgical arm, balancing the Machzor (High Holy Day prayer book) on the back of the pew in front of me, felt like dead weight. Even the smallest movement strained the healing tendons and aching muscles.
Supporting the book sent a dull, gripping ache through my upper arm and shoulder. I shifted constantly, trying to find a semi-comfortable position.
Within minutes, the strain in my neck from the constant pull of the sling and weight of the book forced me back into my seat. I scanned the room, hoping to find somewhere to rest the book. A lectern, a ledge, anything. Every surface was already in use.
So I stood again.
With my left hand, I began to tap lightly against my chest.
Once. Then again.
Slower than everyone else. Off-beat. A little unsure.
For a few seconds, I froze. Everyone around me seemed to move in quiet unison. Heads bowed. Hands rhythmically rising and falling against their chests. The sound was soft but steady, like a shared heartbeat.
I realized I could not match it. Not even close.
I paused, wondering if I should remain seated, then suddenly heard a voice inside that said, “Stop performing, just be here.”
And then something completely unexpected happened.
Unable to “do it right,” I stopped focusing on how I appeared. I stopped worrying about keeping pace.
Although my physical struggle continued, something shifted. I began to detach from focusing on the mechanics of the prayer and became immersed in a profound, quiet sense of release.
Tears welled unexpectedly. For the first time in my life, stepping outside my own self-consciousness, a sudden overwhelming wave of peace washed over me. I felt the quiet power of God’s forgiveness for His people, and somehow, despite my imperfections, for me as well. From that moment on, each phrase felt less like a recitation and more like a quiet admission. Not polished. Not practiced. Just real.
As I continued tapping my chest, my attention gradually shifted away from my physical discomfort. Instead, I became acutely aware of something else: a lifelong pattern of moving through my actions on autopilot, rarely pausing to truly own them.
By the time the prayer ended, a profound shift occurred. It wasn’t a dramatic awakening or a jolt of ecstatic happiness, just a quiet, settled understanding.
When the service ended and people began filing out of the sanctuary, I stayed where I was for a moment longer. My arm still ached. Nothing about my physical discomfort had changed. But something inside me had.
That night I finally understood that the true gift of Yom Kippur is the invitation to show up in raw, unfiltered honesty. Not flawless observance. Not perfect performance. Just the willingness to stand before Hashem exactly as I was. The service unfolded in a way I never could have anticipated, quietly shaping me into someone more aware, more present, and, perhaps for the first time, willing to face myself honestly.
As I stepped into the cool night air toward my waiting ride, my shoulder still ached, and my arm remained immobilized. Nothing about my physical condition had changed. But I had. I had shown up that night believing I needed to prove I belonged by doing everything right. I left understanding that sometimes the holiest thing we can bring before Hashem is not our strength, but our willingness to stand before Him exactly as we are.
Sherry Christiansen is a veteran freelance journalist and writer with more than twenty years of experience covering health, wellness, mental health, and medicine. Her work has been published by Verywell Health, Medical News Today, NurseJournal.org, and other respected national health and medical publications. In recent years, her writing has expanded to include personal essays exploring Jewish mysticism, spiritual transformation, and the intersection of ancient wisdom with contemporary life. Her writing portfolio is available at https://slclynn12.journoportfolio.com.
Sherry follows the teachings of the Baal Shem Tov, founder of Chasidism, and draws inspiration from the spiritual legacy of Rebbe Nachman of Breslov. Those influences, together with her own conversion to Judaism, involving 12 months of formal study with a Conservative rabbi and regular Orthodox community involvement, inform her writing on faith, healing, resilience, and the sacred potential of everyday life.
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