Waiting for the Tenth

On Monday morning I walked into services for Sukkot and was greeted warmly by the rabbi. "Kathy, we're so glad you're here," he said. "You're the tenth person...now we can start!"

At the end of services, he said to the 30 or so people assembled, "I know we all have our own groove and timetable for when we get here, but tomorrow we can't start until we have a minyan. So I'll ask you to please try to get here by 9:00. We depend on each other."

I didn't forget what he said, and had every intention of leaving early enough to get to the synagogue promptly. But the next morning I chatted with my house guests, drank that second cup of coffee in the sukkah before the impending rain would ruin my chances for the day, and I don't recall what else. I walked into the synagogue building at exactly 9:25 with another person. I could see Rabbi chatting with the seven other people in the sanctuary, and motion to the Cantor to start when he saw that numbers nine and ten had just walked in.

At that point, I remembered a time fourteen years earlier when another group was eagerly waiting for the tenth person.

I walked into morning services for Simchat Torah at a small synagogue in upstate New York. I was on vacation in the area, and wanted to say kaddish for my brother, who had passed away the year before. The rabbi and eight men, mostly elderly retirees, looked shocked and then joyous, as my entry interrupted their discussion about whether or not to wait or count a Torah as the tenth presence. When they learned that my last name is Elias, they called me, "Elijah," for the rest of the morning. I never felt more valued and necessary to a community than I did on that day.

I ran into the upstate New York rabbi two years ago at a conference. We remembered each other almost instantly, and he called me Elijah before he remembered my name is Kathy. He told me about how important my presence was on that day. What he didn't know was that it was a milestone day for me as well.

My Jewish journey began as an adult, when I converted to Judaism more than 30 years ago. Fourteen years ago, when I entered that sanctuary in upstate New York, I had learned to read Hebrew, and although I went to services regularly, every week felt like a test of my Hebrew skills and Jewish identity. I refrained from accepting an aliyah or any honor that would put me in front of the congregation. I approached every service as if I were the worst student in a class, hiding in the back and hoping not to be called upon.

My motivation to walk into the upstate New York shul that morning was to say kaddish for my brother. I'm not sure I knew what else would be possible. But those eight elderly men and their rabbi, and their expectation that I would take my place in sharing the joy of the Torah, swept away my reticence. I became the tenth person in their community and, for the first time, fully participated in a religious service.

The first time I said the Torah blessings was on that morning. The first time I held and danced with a Torah was that morning. The first time I felt the full inclusion into Jewish ritual life was that morning.

Being the tenth or the 110th person doesn't matter. Showing up matters. It is our presence in kehilla - sacred community - that creates the potential for something in someone's life to change, even if we never know about it.

We depend on each other.