Finding Freedom in the Wilderness

I remember the first time I heard the saying “All of us were there at Sinai.” It was at the start of my deep dive into Judaism after years of searching for meaning and healing after challenging life events. There is some kind of ancestral or soulical tie to those words that confirmed a familiarity I had frequently felt within myself. I imagined myself at the foot of the mountain as millions of us stood, awaiting the Torah before the next leg of the journey began.

For years, like the Israelites of old, I walked in my own wilderness. All my life, I knew I was a Jew. Though I grew up outside of normative Judaism, in a small community that blended the various faith traditions of my enslaved ancestors with Judaism, I was raised with many Jewish traditions and values as a Jew of West African descent. I never felt fully fulfilled there; I always felt most drawn to the mitzvot above all else, and always had this inkling that I should be doing more. Eventually, I decided to leave and forge a new path forward in what would be most closely characterized as a baal teshuvah journey.

The heartache that came with leaving everything I knew behind to find myself and Hashem was messy, complicated, and bittersweet, just like when we left Egypt all those centuries ago. We didn’t know where we were going. We didn’t know how we would get there. We didn’t even know what life would look like after the journey was over. Over time, we learned that the journey never really ends; it only starts anew at every milestone, but Hashem is there for us every step of the way. Through the giving of the Torah at Mount Sinai, which served as a spiritual and physical checkpoint between the wilderness and the Promised Land, Hashem was essentially saying, “This is what freedom looks like. I trust you to always find Me, no matter what you may face.”

Conservative Judaism offered me a home that felt familiar in all the right ways. It encouraged me to study and learn, never shamed me for what I didn’t know. I found community, friends, and hope at a time when my journey through my wilderness had left me exhausted and unsure. My rabbi worked with me to affirm my Jewish connection in alignment with halacha, ensuring my existing Jewish roots and connection were acknowledged in the process. I was returning. It was a life-changing experience to enter the mikvah for the first time. I felt as though time stopped, and my family’s past, present, and future reconnected at once. I knew at that moment that my Jewish soul had finally found peace upon coming home to where it belonged. I knew then that I was the link between my Ghanaian Jewish ancestors and the modern day. That experience culminated in December of last year, and I made a tallit with Ankara fabric to honor the moment.

Every day since, my love for the mitzvot has only grown. Now a rabbinical student, active Jewish educator, and avid poet and musician, continuing to share my journey, I’m excited for what the future holds. Shavuot has never held so much meaning as it does now. My journey was not easy. But sometimes it takes a walk through the wilderness to center us on the here and now. When I think about the statement, “All of us were there at Sinai,” I think of soul memory. Etched into my soul is this deep feeling of familiarity and closeness with Hashem, Torah, and the very essence of divine love that permeates through my being. For me, Shavuot is not just a holy day; it is the unified remembrance of a moment in which all of the Jewish people of the past, present, and future stood determined, defined our own story, and healed together from the tragedies of the past, so I could be here today.

Chag Sameach!