Yesterday was no different. Our service was conducted by a variety of our members, and at one point or another, nearly everyone led a prayer or gave an interpretation. Then, the grandson of one couple showed up with his parents, and proceeded to squeal and smile, and melt everyone's hearts. It was a delight.
Yes, there were rough spots. Yes, some parts went on too long for the medical issues of some of our elder members. But when we held our memorial service, and one young lady ran across the room to hug another who was mourning the loss of her father, I realized, once again, that there is no where I'd rather be to worship. As when so many members of our group stood beside me after the death of my father, I know, more than I ever have while being in a synagogue, that I am in a community, and that I'm a member as much as anyone else in that community. Throughout history, there were places that could never have a rabbi or a cantor to lead the worship; in this group, this is by choice and not necessity.
I'm so happy that we're with this group.