Page 13 - PSALMS OF DAVID SELF-DISCOVERY JOURNAL gray FINAL

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For the first time, it all made sense. Until then, I didn’t put 2 and 2 together. I could now see how
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the wisdom of the psalms could make a difference; to offer meaning to my life. This Journal is my personal
roadmap. I hope it will become yours as well. I felt that if one psalm could make such an impact on me
, the reader, the chance to find meaning in their wisdom as well—
after ten years, I would like to offer
to help you on your path to self-discovery.
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Growing up in a Jewish home in Brooklyn, New York, I was raised with the cultural values of Jewish
life—the everyday traditions—the food and family celebrations, the sounds of Yiddish whisperings
signaling that the grownups were talking about things that were only for adult ears; my grandparents’
old-world traditions and superstitions—and so much more that was similar to every other Jewish family
in the neighborhood, as well as every Jewish household in Brooklyn and beyond. In Judaism, so much
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revolves around the home—the cultural center of all life experiences and learning.
But whereas many others I knew attended services regularly and knew the Torah intimately, my
background in my own religion did not include Biblical study nor reading the Psalms of David. Even
without these, I never felt any less Jewish. All I knew of the synagogue was getting dressed up on the
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Jewish holidays and walking to the three synagogues in the neighborhood to socialize with friends outside.
As I grew older, after 40 years of marriage that was suddenly cut short 10 years ago, I felt like something
was missing. My husband, David, had a Bar Mitzvah at 13, but aside from Hebrew School and Torah
study related to the above, he had no relationship with the synagogue after that time. His parents did
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keep a Kosher home, which was more than most other Jewish families I knew in Brooklyn, so he knew
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the laws of not mixing meat and dairy, having separate dishes and silverware for each, and having separate
meat and dairy dishes for Passover. However, I don’t believe he ever stepped back into a synagogue
except for his friends’ Bar Mitzvahs, our wedding, other weddings of friends and family, and, of course,
our two sons’ Bar Mitzvahs. We also attended a few funerals where he would read and recite the Hebrew
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prayers, but I just sat there, silent, because I couldn’t read Hebrew.
Then, in October 2008, David suddenly suffered a massive stroke that put him into a coma for 4
days—enough time for me, my sons, and their families to say goodbye without his being able to
communicate with us. The doctor said he was brain-dead, but we kept talking to him, knowing inside

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that he could hear us.
But I didn’t know how to pray for him.