I am eight years old, long and gangly and unsure. My parents divorced two years ago and I am on a visit to my father. He and his new wife – my new stepmother – have two new kittens. There’s a lot that is new lately. We are at their new beach cottage in Rhode Island and I have escaped to the front lawn with the kittens and have them running around in circles chasing a long piece of grass. I am lying on the lawn, focused on their antics when suddenly two feet appear in front of me. I notice that the feet are attached to legs and then look up to see a man dressed in his Sunday best, including a top hat and walking cane.

I blink a couple of times and the man introduces himself: “Hello, young lady. My name is Timothy. How do you do?” I stand up to shake Timothy’s hand and introduce myself. “Do you know the history of your name?” he asks. I smile broadly, proud that I know how my mother and father came across my name while reading James Michener’s The Source while my mom was pregnant. I share this information with him and tell him, “Kerith was one of the characters in Michener’s novel.” Timothy smiles and tells me I’m correct. “You should know Michener’s source too. Your name is the name of a brook: the brook Kerith. It was there that the ravens fed the prophet Elijah. Do you have a bible at home?” he asks. “I don’t know,” I respond, slightly miffed that he has more information about my name than I do and that he has asked a question that I can’t immediately answer. “Well, if you do, look it up. First Kings, Chapter 17, verse 3,” he rolls off. He also tells me about a novel by George Moore that I can read when I’m older. I thank him – and then I run inside to tell my father about what has transpired in the yard.

To my surprise, we do have a bible in the house.  I don’t think we have it for any religious reasons, as my parents (one Jewish, one Catholic) were, and still are, firmly secular in outlook and observance. As I tell my father the story, a look of disbelief crosses his face. “But I have the chapter and verse, Dad! Let’s look it up!” So we do, and it’s there – and this is the first time that I feel a connection to something bigger, older, greater, grander than I am: something my ancestors must have cared about; and I suddenly long to be a part of it. We continue to go to the beach every year until I finish college and I never see Timothy. Still, others confirm that he was a real man, top-hatted, who lived a real life in the real community.

I beg my parents to send me to religious school and they decline. It is the 1980s and we live in a wealthy suburb in Connecticut where the b’nai mitzvah parties are so extravagant as to be ridiculous. I’m not old enough to articulate what exactly draws me so powerfully to a synagogue, so – looking back – my parents’ decision makes plenty of sense. When I go away to college in Saint Paul, Minnesota, I finally have the opportunity to explore Judaism on my own terms. The more I explored, the more I wanted to know.  My Jewish knowledge and experience began to deepen and take shape during these college years.

Just as finding beauty in Judaism became a lifelong passion, finding beauty in the world through words and music has been a lifelong fascination for me. Music, and singing in particular, fills my soul. My mother likes to brag that I began singing before I could walk. When I was 17 years old, I found an old guitar in the attic, locked myself in my room after school every day for about two weeks, and taught myself to play just about every Joni Mitchell song. I find beauty in all kinds of music and enjoy listening to a variety of styles – from opera to bossa nova to rock-a-billy. I am able to present a breadth of repertoire (including pop, folk, classical, rock, jazz, etc.) with a depth of musicality. I love being able to cross over into many different styles of singing. Choral music and conducting are also great loves of mine. Music elevates us through beauty, whether we are participating, collaborating or listening.

Over time, it seemed only natural to me to combine my love for Judaism with my love for music.  I think of the man who told me the story of my name as a malach (angel or messenger), who pushed me onto a path that is founded upon tradition and history and rooted in the practice of compassion (rachmanut). Through music in the synagogue, we are able to live out the value of hiddur mitzvah (the beautification of the commandments).  My daily work as a cantor and my daily interactions as a human being are steeped in the Jewish values of rachmanut and hiddur mitzvah. Formative experiences that I was able to connect to my own spiritual growth have inspired me to engage with congregants in many meaningful ways. I stood on the bimah earlier this year beside a young man whose mom told me years earlier that he could never have a bar mitzvah because of his genetic disorder. As I stood next to him, seeing him chant the Sh’ma before his family, I was filled with joy knowing that I had helped him connect to something meaningful that he will carry with him into his adult life. In just a few weeks from this writing, I will witness and affirm another young woman stepping into the welcoming waters of the mikvah as she enters the covenant as a Jew. I am again filled with delight as I think about meeting her two years ago at an event for LGBTQ+ youth and helping her find her home within the synagogue. I think about the gentleman who attends services every single week and who makes the point of sharing with me that he doesn’t believe in “all this God stuff,” but that the music and being part of community is at the center of his Judaism. We all have our own distinct paths and connections to Jewish life. I am blessed in this work to have opportunities to help others find their own Jewish paths and tell their unique Jewish stories, and I am eager to engage in this sacred work with your community.