It’s that time of year again. The day before Yom Kippur, and the words and melody of Kol Nidrei, so haunting and familiar, are ringing in my ears. The holiest day of the year begins with us asking to be released from our vows, from all the promises we made this past year. And as we stand there, we think about all the promises made and broken.
Last Yom Kippur, we meant it. Every word of it. We were going to be better this year. We were going to be the person we knew we could be. We made promises to ourselves, to God, maybe even out loud to the people we love. And now, here we are again. Another year gone by. Another stack of broken promises we’re carrying into these holy days.
What happened to all those promises?
The Yearly Confessions
Vidui. Each one of those confessions has a face, an event, a memory. These are my failures. My year, written out for everyone to see.
Ashamnu – I am guilty. The umbrella confession that covers everything else. All those moments I’d rather forget. All the times I knew better and did it anyway. All the promises to myself that I broke without even putting up a fight. The guilt sits there, real and earned, because I can’t pretend I didn’t know what I was doing.
Bagadnu – I betrayed. I think about the confidence my friend shared with me, and how I shared it with someone else because it made for a good story. I think about the promises I made to my spouse when things were calm, and how quickly I broke them when I was upset. I think about my child who trusted me to show up, and the excuse I made for why something else was more important. Betrayal is the moment trust breaks, and I pretend I don’t hear it crack.
Gazalnu – I stole. I don’t steal, I told myself. But what about the time I took from my employer, scrolling on my phone when I should have been working? What about the attention I stole from my spouse because I couldn’t put down my device? What about the credit I took for ideas that weren’t entirely mine?
Dibarnu Dofi – I spoke badly about others. I swore I was done with lashon hara. I was going to be the person who changed the subject, who walked away. But there I was, just last week, schmoozing with my neighbors on Shabbos, and when Sarah’s name came up, I didn’t stop the conversation. Worse than that – I added to it. I told myself it was just sharing information, just being honest, but I knew. I knew exactly what I was doing.
Tafalnu sheker – I lied. Not the big lies, I told myself. It’s not such a big deal. Just the small ones that don’t really matter. The “I’m on my way” when I haven’t left yet. The “I forgot” when I just didn’t want to. The exaggerations that make my stories more dramatc, the half-truths that make me look better. But standing here on Yom Kippur, I can’t pretend those little lies didn’t chip away at who I want to be.
Ka’asnu – I was angry. I made a promise that I wouldn’t lose it with my husband and kids anymore. That I’d count to ten, that I’d walk away when I felt it building. Yet how many times did the whole neighborhood hear me yelling? How many times did I see that look in my daughter’s eyes, that mixture of hurt and fear, and know that I’d done it again?
Latznu – I mocked. I promised I’d stop. I promised I wouldn’t roll my eyes at the women who always wear stockings even in the summer heat, or smirk about the families without smartphones, or make jokes about the wigs that aren’t lace-top. Someone’s trying to be more careful with their Yiddishkeit, and I can’t help but make a sarcastic comment. I told myself it was harmless, just a little joke among friends. But mockery disguised as humor is still mockery, and I knew better.
Kininu – I was jealous. I promised myself I wouldn’t do it anymore. I told myself I’d be genuinely happy for others, that I’d worked through this. And then I saw pictures from Esty’s exotic vacation, and instead of feeling happy for her, all I felt was this tight, burning jealousy in my chest. Why her and not me?
Kishinu oref – I was stiff-necked. I’ve been rigid. Too set in my ways. I resist change even when I know it would help me grow. I hold tight to being right instead of opening myself to another perspective. I let pride keep me frozen in place.
Rashanu – I acted wickedly. Wicked feels like too big a word. That’s for other people, for real sins. But then I remember walking past someone who needed help because I was in a hurry. Deleting those tzedakah emails without reading them because I’d already decided I wasn’t going to give. Choosing my comfort over someone else’s pain. Maybe wickedness is just the accumulation of all the times I chose myself when I could have chosen kindness.
Avinu Malkeinu: My Father and My King
And then comes Avinu Malkeinu and I feel something crack open in my chest.
Avinu – our Father. Malkeinu – our King.
I need both right now.
I need You to be my Father because I’m coming to You broken like a child who messed everything up and doesn’t know how to fix it. I need You to see past this list of failures to the person I’m trying so hard to become. I’m so tired. So tired of disappointing You. Of disappointing myself. Of disappointing everyone who believed in me.
Please remember I’m just human. Please remember I’m fragile and flawed and I meant every promise even though I couldn’t keep them. I need Your fatherly compassion because I’m drowning here.
But I also need You to be my King. Because compassion alone isn’t enough. I need power. I need Your authority, Your might, Your ability to tear up the decrees that are already written. A father’s love can forgive, but only a king can change what’s already been sealed.
Please use that power for me. Override what I’ve earned. Change what seems unchangeable. Be my King when I need Your strength and my Father when I need Your embrace.
Right now I need both.
Neila: One Last Chance
The day is almost over. Neila is here and the gates are closing. My last chance. My throat is raw from praying, my legs ache from standing, and there’s this desperate feeling rising in my chest. This is it. My final opportunity to make things right.
Another chance.
But here’s what keeps running through my mind: I don’t have to wait until next Yom Kippur for another chance. Every single day is full of them.
That moment right before I lose my temper with my kids – another chance.
That split second before I say something cruel – another chance.
That instant when I can choose to scroll or choose to be present – another chance.
The gates keep opening. Over and over again.
Every morning.
Every moment.
Every breath is another opportunity to choose differently.
I’m going to break promises again. I know this about myself now. I’m going to mess up and fall short and find myself next Yom Kippur with a list that looks a lot like this one. That’s the heartbreaking truth of being human.
That’s what it means to be alive, to keep choosing again. And again. And again.
Not never falling, but standing back up each time.
By keeping the most important promise: to keep trying. To keep taking that next chance when it comes. To keep walking through those gates.
Neila. The gates are closing.
But tomorrow they’ll open again.
And I’ll be there, ready to walk through again.
Gmar Chasima Tova!
Miriam
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