My father's death taught me to pray

As part of “Believe“The New York Times asked several writers to research a significant moment in their religious or spiritual life.

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For many weeks I was, Kaddish, the traditional Jewish prayer of grief, to recite my father when I realized that I didn't know how to pray.

Oh, I knew the words and melodies for the daily services in which I took part – my father made sure and made me and my sisters synagogue every Shabbat. I even knew what they meant thanks to seven years in a Hebrew-speaking summer camp and four as head of the Jerusalem office of the New York Times. I knew the choreography: when should I sit, stand, bow, touch my fingers on my forehead or open my palms into the sky.

I knew everything well enough to occasionally take my rightful place as mourners and to lead the small group in my local conservative synagogue on a few Sunday morning.