As I walked up to the bema in what we affectionately call “The Biggest Little Shul in the World” in Reno Nevada which bills itself as the Biggest Little city in the World, my mind drifted back to June of 1967. Back in the days of the Boston Celtics dynasty and the Beatles, I had been studying for months for my bar mitzvah with my good friend Mark Silverman. Despite our continuous efforts to master the Hebrew we needed to know to successfully navigate our way trough our respective Bar Mitzvah’s, I was without a doubt the worst student in the history of my Shul. I was such an unmotivated student that my poor teacher Rabbi Lepidus made the decision to save me from an enormous embarrassment in front of friends and family and limited my participation to leading the Mincha service davening.
While the traditional Mincha service takes less than 20 minutes, under my stewardship it took a mind-numbing 45. I took so long plodding my way through the Amidah that the head Rabbi decided to dispense with his usual evening inspirational speech and go directly to the Maariv davening. Terrified, humiliated and exhausted I left the Shul and vowed never to step in front of a crowd again and most certainly to never ever lead any sort of davening service again. Of course that pledge was made at the age of 13 and I had yet to meet my first Chabad Rabbi.
Fifteen years later I had left my boyhood home and found myself living in Palm Springs California drifting through life like a sail boat without a rudder. One day your boat might land in Hawaii and the next in Antarctica. As a young boy I once read a wonderful quote by an unknown philosopher that said, “All the flowers, of all of the tomorrows, are found in the seeds of today.” Little did I know at the time that this quote would epitomize my adult spiritual life. For it was there in the hot, dry, desert community of Palm Springs that the seeds of my spiritual journey were planted. The “farmer” in question was introduced to me by a close friend named Mindy. She cajoled me over and over again until I finally agreed to meet her friends, Rabbi and Rebbetzin Denebeim.
Any good farmer will tell you that even the best seeds in the world won’t fully grow to fruition until the ground is fertile and properly prepared. And in my case my spiritual field just wasn’t ready. Despite my overt reluctance to learn and grow, Rabbi Denebeim never gave up on me. Year after year I received invitations to Shabbos dinner and requests to join him in the Sukkah for a meal. While I would through him the occasional “bone” and accept an invitation, I just wasn’t into it, the “ground” just wasn’t ready!
In 1995 I moved to Wilmington Delaware and unknown to me the tenacious Rabbi Denebeim called the local Chabad Rabbi Chuni Vogel and told him “There is this Jewish guy named Steve Hyatt……” Taking the spiritual baton from Rabbi Denebeim, Rabbi Vogel called me and invited me to Shabbos dinner. In typical fashion I made up an excuse and politely declined. Several years went by and one day I returned from a business trip and sitting on my desk was what I thought was a pizza box. When I opened it I discovered the toastiest looking matzo I’d seen in my life. It was of course a box of Shmura Matzah. Attached to the box was a note from the Rabbi inviting me to join him for services on Passover.
Now a lot had changed over that two year period and something inside me said to call the Rabbi. That something, as I now know, was my Neshoma crying out for some Jewish nourishment. Following the instructions of that inner voice I picked up the phone and called the Rabbi. That following Friday I went to his home for Shabbos dinner and quite frankly I never left. The spiritual ground that had to that point been barren and fallow was now suddenly quite fertile, vibrant and accepting. Every time the Rabbi showed me something new, I wanted to know more. And in typical Chabad fashion he was ready to show me as much as I could handle.
Time went on and one day I found myself transferred to Oregon where I met another Chabad Rabbi, Rabbi Wilhelm who once again nurtured the seeds of spirituality Rabbi Denebeim had planted so many years before. When I moved to Reno and discovered Chabad of Northern Nevada and Rabbi and Rebbetzin Cunin I knew that I was ready for those seeds to fully flourish and bloom. I committed myself to the pursuit of learning how to read Hebrew well enough so I could keep up in the daily, Shabbos and Holiday services. I dedicated a period of time each day to read part of the weekly Torah parsha, studying the commentaries and the thoughts of our sages. And to my ultimate surprise I took a plunge into the Mikvah for the first time. But never, ever, EVER in my wildest dreams did I ever think about getting back up in front of a congregation and leading the davening.
I felt like the thin adult who was the fat child in grade school. No matter how good you look as an adult, you sometimes find a moment in life where you are once again that fat little boy from yuor childhood. And that is exactly how I felt about leading the davening. In my mind it didn’t matter how well I learned Hebrew, the tunes or the cadence. In my mind I was still little 13 year old Stevie Hyatt who was traumatized at his bar mitzvah. In my mind I was once again going to stumble and bumble my way through the prayer book, horribly embarrassing myself in front of friends and family. Of course that is not what Rabbi Cunin had in mind.
It was a typical end of summer day as my Dad and I walked down the mountain to attend services at Chabad of Northern Nevada. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, the temperature was a delightful 70 degrees and the birds were chirping away as they flew to and fro searching for their breakfast. As Dad and I walked into Shul Rabbi Cunin was talking with a couple of our buddies when he turned to me and said, “Steve, Paul (the gentleman who usually leads our davening) isn’t here today, why don’t you take over the davening when Moishe (the Rabbi’s son) is finished with the Psalms and continue until the reading of the Torah.”
In one fell swoop I was 13 and terrified. The Rabbi looked at me as if he were thinking, “Shlomo Yakov this is a piece of Kugel, make like Mr. Nike and "Just do it." Every fiber of my being screamed out nooooooooooooooooooooooooooo! But my Neshoma must have grabbed hold of my vocal cords because I heard myself saying, “Ah, sure Rabbi, no problem.” “Great” he said, “Moishe lets get started.”
As Moishe made his way through the davening my mind kept screaming, “Slow down Moishe this is going way to fast!” Page after page went by when I suddenly heard Moishe reading the last paragraph of his portion of the davening. I was standing very close to the Shul exit door. I figured I could easily out run the Rabbi if I started now. Just as little “Stevie” Hyatt was going to bolt, my father started to chuckle. He reminded me what happened to him and my grandfather Fritz at my Bris 53 years earlier. He told me the Rabbi came over and asked, “Are you the father?” When my Dad nodded yes the Rabbi said, “Good, you come up to the Torah when I call you and say this” and he pointed to the Siddur. Dad immediately started to panic as he frantically studied the text. My grandfather started laughing at him when the Rabbi came back and asked, “And you, you are the Grandfather?” After reluctantly nodding yes, the Rabbi said, “Good, you come next.” Immediately Grandpa lost his smile and started studying frantically as well. Apparently little “Stevie” Hyatt wasn’t the only family member to get a bit nervous when directed to appear in front of a congregation!
The story brought a smile to my face. It couldn't be that bad since both my Dad and Grandpa had successfully survived the experience. So I figured “I am in the safest place in the world, a Chabad Shul. These guys all love me and want me to be successful and best of all most of them are glad it’s me and not them about to stand up in front of the bema.” So as Moishe finished his portion of the davening I got up, adjusted my tallis and walked up to the bema to assume the position.
I began a little shaky, picked up a little steam during the Shema and then felt much more comfortable during the Amidah. All the while a little voice inside was saying, “Little Stevie simply wasn’t ready 40 years ago. It took a long time for his spiritual field to be nurtured and become fertile.” In reality it took a whole team of “gardeners” to cultivate this fertile soil so the seeds of Torah could grow. But these Chabad “Farmers,” these wonderful Rabbis and Rebbetzins so love their fellow Jews that they are willing to patiently wait as long as necessary to see their fellow Jews grow and flourish in a safe, nurturing, nonjudgmental environment.
As I held the Torah in my arms and chanted the Shema I couldn’t help but thank and admire my team of Rabbis; Lapedus, Denebeim, Vogel, Wilhelm and Cunin and wonder at their patience, love and commitment. Each in his own turn had nurtured my spiritual field and each in his own turn shared this wonderful, triumphant moment with me. I’d be lying if I said it was “A Piece of Kugel,” but it was much easier than I thought. At least this time I was fast enough so the Rabbi could give his Shabbos sermon to the congregation. And if all of this wasn’t enough, young 7 year old Rochel Cunin told my mother Golda that I was “…pretty good, a little slow, but pretty good.”
Armed with that knowledge I went home and started practicing for the next time business would take Paul out of town and Rabbi Cunin asked me to help out with the davening. As you read this I am working hard to improve my reading speed. I am bound and determined to hear my 7 year old friend Rochel Cunin say, “Good job Steve, much faster this time!”
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