My first time leading prayer was at age 4 in the Red Room at the preschool of Temple Israel in Boston. It was a special day and I was proud of myself when I successfully tied my shoes by myself for the first time. I ran to the teachers and demanded we stop the class and sing Shehechyanu together. And so we did.

The synagogue was always home – a safe and familiar space. I remember sitting on the bima singing “Shabbat is here” with my preschool teachers, coloring in a coloring book in between the pews during Kabbalat Shabbat, and holding my grandmother’s hand while we sang together.

The most vivid memory I have of my grandmother is her voice. She sang as much as she spoke, if not more, and she loved to talk. Her soundtrack ranged from liturgy to folk songs to show tunes to silly lyrics set to Sousa melodies — she had a song for anything and I sang along with her, from Debbie Friedman to Gilbert and Sullivan. The music was not simply decoration, but a language all its own, expressing meaning and emotion independent from and in addition to the lyrics.

The Talmud teaches us to say 100 blessings every day (Menachot 43b). Some of Grammy’s songs were silly, but I count them all as blessings. She taught me how to pray through song; a soothing yet stimulating form of ritual, either independent or communal; the wave of calm that washed over me when she sang soft and slow; the effervescence that bubbled up in joy and excitement. This was the beginning of my cantorial journey. There were certainly many other role models and inspirations along the way, but my cantorate stems from her. My “calling” speaks – or perhaps sings – in her voice.

According to family lore (though I obviously have no recollection of this), my grandmother said from the day I was born that I was destined for the rabbinate (close enough, I guess). From my preschool shehecheyanu for my shoelaces, to graduation from Skidmore College, where I decorated my grad cap with that same blessing, I always felt drawn toward prayer, and I believe that is due, in no small part, to the encouragement, compassion, and love of my grandmother, Carol Kur z”l.

The first time I chanted Eil Malei Rachamim was at her funeral. In this sacred text, the Jewish funeral prayer, there is a discrepancy as to the imagery. We often hear (as is printed in L’chol Z’man V’eit: The CCAR Life-Cycle Guide) “ham’tzei m’nuchah n’khonah tachat kanfei Hash’khinah” – asking God to provide a sure rest under the protection of the wings of the Shekhinah, the Divine Presence. However, the text is also often rendered “al kanfei Hash’khinah” – “on the wings of the Shekhinah.” When I was given the honor to recite this prayer at Grammy’s funeral (via Zoom, it being the height of the pandemic), I prayed for her soul to be embraced by those Divine wings, but I felt myself embraced. Standing surely upon the wings of tradition, those wings which have carried our people through the good and bad for millenia, I was also sheltered by them. Tachat v’al, under and on, embraced and uplifted. Standing in my living room, singing to a laptop, I experienced love and awe that can only truly be described as holiness.

Sifrei D’varim, a second century CE collection of midrashic commentary on the book of Deuteronomy, teaches, “Great is song, for it contains the present, the past, the future, and the World to Come” (Sifrei D’varim 333 on 32:43). When I sing, I am connected with the blessing of my grandmother’s memory. I sing for myself, I sing for her, I sing to bring the gift she gave me into the future. When we sing, we hear something holy within; we recall songs of the past, songs of our inner selves, and songs yet unsung. The Jewish tradition recognizes this awesome power and holds it as sacred. It is an honor and a blessing to serve my people in song.