Saturday, February 16, 2019

Shabbat at the House of a Hundred Grandmothers: I head there in the early morning in the midst of a sudden hailstorm. I've walked through Texas thunder and Cleveland blizzards. I can handle this. I'd been told ahead of time that they'd need me to reach the quorum of ten men needed for prayer. I'm a few minutes late when I get there. I'm number eight. Number nine comes in a few minutes later. The prayers start. We get as far as we can without a quorum. Right when the tenth is needed, a man arrives in a wheelchair, driven by a caregiver. He stares benignly forward, not reacting to his surroundings. A gentle dispute arises over whether he can be counted. He doesn't respond to questions, and we're unsure whether he knows where he is. The apparent rule of thumb: a man can be counted if he can respond "Amen" to blessings. People try to get him to do so, but he doesn't. We're told that he responds if a member of his family is saying the prayer, but only then. After several minutes of gentle attempts to communicate with him, we reach a consensus that it won't work. Some men pack up and leave, perhaps to go to other congregations. Some continue with what prayers they can still do solo. I put my raincoat on and head out. A woman at the door insists on giving me a couple of pieces of cake. I thank her and go back home, back to bed.