A recurring nightmare haunted me for more than 20 years — akin to one an actor might have of walking on stage and not knowing her lines, or even what play she’s in. Mine revolved around a missing mahzor, the one with handwritten notes, prompts for melodies in a hieroglyph only I could read and sticky notes marked with dots that looked more like an echocardiogram than a music sheet.
Each year, as the High Holidays approached, this dream plagued me. Until, about three years ago, it simply stopped. Maybe it was the day I realized I could lead from any mahzor; I don’t need my own. The melodies are old friends now: quirky, uplifting and sometimes depressing friends, pieces of history, liturgy and sounds of the communities I grew up in and have served. After 27 years leading High Holiday services — as a student, a guest leader, now a veteran community leader — I no longer panic at the thought of standing at the amud, or lectern. The awe is still real, but I take my place with confidence and love.
My journey began as a rabbinical student at the Jewish Theological Seminary. I was among the first women given the privilege of leading what they called the Chancellor’s Minyan, a free service, open to the community. I’m sure they paid me, but that wasn’t my reward. The reward was hours of review, really bonding with the words, and practicing liturgy and melodies parroted lovingly from cassette tapes prepared by previous leaders and passed down to each generation of newbies. My awe in those days was for the tradition, as much as for Chancellor Ismar Schorsh, the students and professors, all of whom I imagined must know these prayers better than I did.
I recall, fondly, how strict I was with my younger self — feet together through the entire repetition of the Amidah, believing a step before Oseh Shalom would violate protocol. In truth, it does. But one takeaway I’ve gleaned over the years is “Know before Whom you stand” — and that doesn’t refer to the people assembled. As that hot dog commercial famously declared, I answer to a “higher authority,” and a step or two probably isn’t going to disqualify me.
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In the following years, I led High Holiday in an alternate service called the Kehillah Minyan, a more relaxed, community-oriented service at JTS. Who could forget the holidays of 2001, in the aftermath of 9/11. Rosh Hashanah began less than a week after the attacks, and every rabbi had to rewrite their sermons that year. I can still see the crowds, many unaffiliated Jews among them, who came to 3080 Broadway to hear Kol Nidrei, to cry along with the haunting melody, to make meaning of the holiday. According to Jewish law, there is only a short window in which to recite Kol Nidrei. We almost had to start singing the prayer on the streets in order to finish in time! So student leaders created ad hoc services to accommodate the crowds. We improvised, sang, and cried for the battered American soul, joining our voices in “America the Beautiful” to close our service.
Later, I served as guest shlichat tzibbur, or community prayer leader, at a prominent congregation on Manhattan’s Upper West Side — still young, devoted to my marked-up mahzor, every note rehearsed. I had ruach, or spirit, and confidence. But one moment stands out: The gabbai pulled me aside after the Kol Nidrei service: A congregant, a famous violinist, had questioned where I’d learned a melody for a particular piyyut, or liturgical poem, wondering if I’d conflated two well-known tunes. (I had.) The way that landed, you’d have thought it was God who had given me “feedback” on my davening. Some critique is hard to shake, but is nevertheless appreciated. To this day, I devote extra care to nailing that piyyut‘s melody, start to finish.
For the past 20 years, I’ve served as prayer leader for a Florida congregation I now call home. Standing at the amud in a room full of familiar faces means leading a community you’re woven into. I’m a fixture for them, though they may not realize they’re a fixture for me, too. I see everyone there and everyone no longer there: couples who divorced, grown kids who moved away, some who return lovingly and some less willingly, and the memories of those no longer with us. When I walk the aisle to sing Kol Nidrei, I look into the faces of those assembled, holding their prayers in the notes and in my heart.
We have a congregational practice at Neilah, the final prayer service of Yom Kippur, which I look forward to every year: While the ark is open and I stand feet together (mostly) for the repetition — somehow, with more strength than when I started — the congregation lines up, passing close to the ark, a short distance in front of me. I can’t say for certain what they’re praying for, but I sense it, because when you know people, you know their story, their struggles, their losses, their triumphs. My voice often breaks in these moments, as their prayers intermingle with my own. What an immense privilege to be the prayer leader. I’ve practiced the words, and the melody is now a part of me. All I need is the congregation’s presence to complete the prayer.
I no longer rely on my prayer book for pencil scratches and musical notes, and the nightmare of the missing mahzor no longer plagues me. But my mahzor now holds something even more special: photos taped inside its cover — of my father, who passed in 2019, and also my children, my family. These photos are the unwritten prayer that makes the words on the page more meaningful, more personal.
Communal prayer is a delicate balance. The prayer leader, in addition to holding the sacredness of the assembled, must also find a way into intimate conversation with God. Sometimes a picture can spark that dialogue.
This year marks the 25th anniversary of 9/11. Our country has come a long way since those days and in many ways is unrecognizable. But this year, I want to convey the delicate but strong line of hope that tethers our prayers of the past to the present and into the future. Communal prayer is an act of courage and strength.
This year, I will be holding space for the healing of humanity and the cohesion of our country. I feel that our collective prayer is the score of a people who refuse to be silenced. As we gather for the holidays once again, I will add my prayers to yours — asking that we be inscribed for a good life, a sweet life, and a life of blessing this year and for years to come.
This essay initially appeared in My Jewish Learning’s Shabbat newsletter Recharge on August 22, 2026. To sign up to receive Recharge each week in your inbox, click here.
