We never know what the holidays will bring until we have experienced them.

That’s true for life in general. But every year I approach the Holy Days wondering and looking to see what might happen.

This year, something happened on the very first night of Rosh Hashanah.

There had been a sadness, especially for me and my younger daughter.

For me, it was around my mother, and forgiveness—a common theme of the Holy Days. Feelings of guilt for having disconnected from her at the end of her life filled my heart.

The house was filled with delicious smells of Rosh Hashanah food I had worked so hard to prepare.

But soon before lighting the candles, I went into a kind of panic, with literal pain around my heart.

I went into my room to cry, which helped me calm down, but didn’t take away the pain.

Then I went to greet my daughters who had come for the holiday, and my husband (he’s a side note here, yet central to my life).

The transition happened for me soon after, when we all stood around the candles, one flame lit for each of us.

In a moment of tenderness, before saying the blessings, we all held hands.

My younger daughter stated an intention of allowing for pain (so young, so wise—I have to take a little credit).

In that moment, looking at the candles burning brightly, I felt the closing of a circle—a broken link repaired—as we invited in the light.

After we sat down, we blessed the new year and each other, and suddenly that pain in my chest was gone.

We sang, held hands and cried in gratitude for having made it through Covid alive. Though the pandemic is not over, it was a real Shehekhianu (thank you for bringing us to this season again) moment.

The next two days brought more singing, out in the park, and at home.

Sadness and joy mixed together—and lots of good food.

Then I had to transition to Jury Duty.

Let me start by saying, nobody looks forward to Jury Duty, and just about everyone tries to find ways to get out of it.

But then I was surprised to feel awe as I approached the grand building of the municipal district of New York City. And I was in awe to have the privilege of seeing the inside of a beautiful, grand, old courthouse, with its columns and painted, vaulted ceilings: a powerful symbol of our “Great, American Democracy.”

It’s meant to fill us with awe. And it did.

On the way there, as the sun was coming up over these grand buildings, I passed a man wearing a large sign that simply said: “Can the schools just teach children to read?”

Then I passed some people with a huge banner calling out our city’s heritage of corruption among our mayors.

As I was waiting on line to get into the courthouse, a man on a bicycle at the bottom of the stairs screamed out to us, “When will it be enough? How much is too much?”

After that, the day was uneventful, other than worrying about getting assigned to a case.

We didn’t get called until late in the afternoon, and as we were shuffled to a courtroom, all I could think about was how to let the judge know I would be observing Yom Kippur, and couldn’t be on a case.

I never had to get that far.

First, he introduced the case as criminal, and gave a little speech about our service, about bias, and judging fairly based on the evidence, “beyond a reasonable doubt.”

As we stood up to vow with our right hand that we would be truthful in all our answers as potential jurors, I wondered when would be my chance.

At the second question, I froze: “Based on religious belief, does anyone here feel they do not have the right to judge another person?”

My heart started pounding as I wrestled unexpectedly.

Did I?

Would I have to say I was Jewish?

Was Jewishness enough?

Would I be a weird Jew to state this?

Would they even believe me?

Yet, my beliefs do come from my Jewish practice, which has been to catch myself when I’m judging, and try to put myself in someone else’s shoes;

What do I know of their life, their circumstances?

Who am I to judge?

Who am I?

Silence all around me.

Before I could decide whether to be the outlier, the judge moved on:

Who among us felt they could not judge a police officer’s testimony fairly?

That was easy! I’d stated this in the past—as the outlier—the last time I went for Jury Duty: “I don’t trust the criminal justice system,” I’d said.

It was hard, being the only one to stand, but I’d done it. Why was I afraid now?

I stared at the floor, still wrestling with my feelings around the first question, and started to slowly raise my hand for this one.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the person next to me also raising their hand. As I looked up, gathering strength, I was shocked to realize that half of the potential jurors had done the same!

Were others using this as a potential “out” for Jury Duty, or were we just a reflection of our times—and gathering strength from each other?

We were told to rise, and they dismissed us, one by one, no more questions asked.

The High Holy Days, and especially Yom Kippur, are all about forgiveness, and recognizing the True Judge.

They are all about awe: making ourselves small in the grand scheme of things, and allowing for vulnerability.

They are about facing our potential death, and vowing to live from a place of awareness of our actions and thoughts going forward.

Too much brow-beating can be harmful, but this is an opportunity to put things and ourselves into perspective. It’s about gratitude for having had more time, and vowing not to squander the future.

The Torah reading that transitions us into Yom Kippur this week is Va-Yeilekh. Moses tells the people again that he is about to die. God reminds Moses of this fact again, too. God and Moses both pass on the message: “do not be afraid, for you are not alone.”

And God has Moses write down a song for the people, a poem, a “sefer ha-torah,” a written teaching, to place beside the Ark of the Covenant.

This written teaching will be a witness to the people when they stray in the future.

As we approach Yom Kippur, some of us may need another person to forgive us.

Some of us may need to forgive ourselves.

Some of us may need to have another person witness our stumbling, and gently support us as we grow.

We may also ask, for the world, for our country, how much is too much and when will it be enough?

We may be filled with awe as we approach this work and these questions.

But even as we do these things, we can know that, even when we feel like outliers, we are never alone.

May Yom Kippur carry meaning—and the surprise of broken links repaired.