From now through Yom Kippur, each of our Daily Kavanot will feature a piece written by our clergy on the themes and traditions of the High Holy Days. Each of these pieces can be found in Days of Awe, our High Holy Day Machzor supplement.
Ten Days of Turning
By Rabbi Yoshi Zweiback
I was six—maybe seven—years old. It was a hot, humid Midwestern summer day and I had nothing to do. I wandered out to the garage where we kept all of our sports equipment in a big wooden crate. I grabbed a basketball, tucked it under one arm, and then, standing tall on my tiptoes, reached up and pressed the automatic garage door opener so that I could walk out to the driveway to shoot some hoops. But watching the garage door go up inspired in me a new idea for an afternoon activity. I threw the ball back in the crate and grabbed the garage door opener from the visor of my mom’s car. I went outside and lowered the garage door behind me. The door had a little metal step that jutted out a few inches at its bottom. I climbed on the step, held onto the garage door handle with one hand and then pressed the automatic garage door opener with the other. It was awesome! My very own levitation device. I’d press the button, ride the door half way up to the roof of our house and then jump off at the last minute.
On my sixth or seventh “ride,” the garage door made a hideous noise and ground to a halt, suspended halfway on its track. I pressed the button on the opener again and again but nothing happened. Fear overtook me. I knew my father would be disappointed—and angry.
Mustering up a courage I had not previously displayed, I slowly ascended the stairs to my parents’ room. Dad was sitting in his easy chair, watching a baseball game. I told him what I’d done, how I’d broken the garage door. As I said that I was sorry, my eyes filled with tears.
And my dad reached out his arms to me, picked me up and held me tight, and told me that everything was going to be okay. And he told me how proud he was that I came straight to him, telling him what had happened and saying I was sorry. And everything was okay; nobody was injured, a repairman came and fixed the door, and I never rode on the garage again.
On that summer day all those years ago, my father taught me a lasting lesson: A sincere apology is the beginning of forgiveness. As I grew older and made other, more-serious mistakes, my parents continued to teach me, lovingly reminding me that apologizing was just the first step toward forgiveness. They taught me I had to try to make restitution, that I had to change my behavior and do better next time. They helped teach me how to turn, how to make t’shuvah. But, even as their expectations grew and their lessons deepened, their willingness to forgive remained constant. I am ever grateful for having parents who taught me such a loving lesson.
Sometimes the first step is the hardest. Admitting what it is that you’ve done wrong; offering a sincere, humble apology; and hoping that your friend, your co-worker, your family member will be forgiving.
Our tradition imagines God as that loving parent, open to our turning, ready to forgive. May we be worthy of God’s forgiveness. May we be worthy of each other’s as well.