Selected Pieces - Nonfiction

by Gabrielle Siegel, Georgia

For two decades, Mishkan T’Filah: A Reform Siddur has guided Reform Jews through their prayers. My Judaism comes from years of scouring the English parts of the massive prayer book during long boring services for entertainment and wisdom. I consumed quotes and poems from generations of spiritual leaders like “Don’t stop after beating the swords into plowshares, don’t stop! Go on beating and make musical instruments out of them,” and “More than the Jewish people have kept Shabbat, Shabbat has kept the Jewish people.”

In 2013, the Central Conference of American Rabbis released a kid’s version.

I never liked the kids version. I thought it was stupid. Why would anyone create a kid’s version and keep these children from exploring freely? It’s like teaching someone to cook—except never letting them touch the oven or knives and then wondering why they can’t take care of themselves in adulthood. In my eyes, it reflected the worst of modern Jewish secularization. I couldn’t pray from it, couldn’t find meaning, couldn’t do anything except stare at ugly pictures.

Then, it changed.

I changed.

I changed when two hundred thirty-nine faces joined my small synagogue after October 7th, 2023. The adults and teenagers sat on our benches, and the children rested where their peers usually stand for Junior Choir. The youngest babies—the ones with soul-wrenching cries and powerful shouts—had car seats and pacifiers. Each mystery congregant had their own siddurim, their own Mishkan T’Filah.

The normal Mishkan T’Filah is 700 pages. Each page has transliteration on the left, Hebrew on the right, and English beneath. It guides me. I see it every morning. I have a different compact all-Hebrew siddur I leave in my car, but Mishkan T’Filah is close to my heart with its endless snippets of wisdom and crisp navy blue cover.

Some mystery congregants had a different siddur. Mishkan T’Filah for Children: A Siddur for Families and Schools is only 30 pages with a bright blue cover and gorgeous illustrations. I used to hate it, I still hate it, it’s so childish, meant for babies.

Kfir Bibas can’t read it yet.

Kfir Bibas can’t read it yet.

Will he ever read it? Will he ever sit in a car seat again? Will he ever open the bright blue cover?

Because they aren’t two hundred and thirty-nine faces, they’re two hundred and thirty-nine posters with white text on a red background. “KIDNAPPED,” they say.

One of those posters has the face of Kfir Bibas, Israeli-Argentinian, age one. When his poster joined my synagogue, he was nine months old. Now, there are only 132 posters, but Kfir’s is among them.

He will only exist in these beige walls and gorgeous stained glass as a hostage poster, a car seat, and a bright blue book. I look at my own Mishkan T’Filah for answers—the one that has guided me through connection and spirituality my entire life—but I only see bright blue.

G-d, I feel you, but I don’t want you. Kfir needs you. Protect him, not me.

Since Hamas attacked the State of Israel on the sacred joyous holiday of Simchat Torah, I don’t pray for myself. I barely pray for those directly around me. I feel guilty praying for my friend who recently got diagnosed with epilepsy. I don’t think it’s logical, but how can I? How can I, when those car seats and posters need all the strength G-d can give them?

One Sunday morning, surrounded by the sweet sixth graders I teach at Sunday school, I sway to the morning service. In my lap is the navy Mishkan T’Filah. There is the prayer for waking up, the prayer for the morning, the prayer for the love of Torah, the biblical recitation of faith, and the blessings on daily miracles. Modeh Ani, Yotzeir Or, Ahavat Olam, Sh’ma, Nisim B’chol Yom. Just like every day, while reciting Nisim B’chol Yom, one blessing consumes me, burns me, warms me, restarts the grief I had been so good at shutting down:

Baruch atah Adonai, בָּרוּךְ אַתָּה יהוה

Eloheinu Melech haolam אֱהֵינוּ מֶלֶךְ הָעלָם

Matir Asurim. מַתִּיר אֲסוּרִים

Blessed are you, the Lord our G-d, King of the Universe, who frees the captive.

Once, I hated that bright blue book because I can’t pray from it, but these days, I pray for what it represents.