It was so sunny. I walked into my beloved study. The burgundy books stood at attention like soldiers on parade with golden epaulets showing their status. Each with a different title yet all bearing a similarity, a common goal, to interpret the sacred text.

The secular library is downstairs; there you will see the usual paperbacks and multicolored bindings, but not here. A commonality of purpose defines this study.

I nod past my books with love, knowing where each is placed in this hierarchy of use. The closest are used most. Reference books are higher up. The room is lined floor to ceiling and the furthest are used on occasion only, when concordance or difficult passages are consulted. If one is missing I know it. In this space I feel secure, as if all the important knowledge in my life is accessible. Surrounded by this sea of burgundy and gold I sit at my round desk on a quiet Sabbath morning, early when the mind is at peace and able to flow easier into spaces not normally occupied. When the quota of texts is complete for the day and the daily burden somewhat lifted. In these precious moments new insights finally surface and are incubated.

That is on a normal Sabbath but today was different. Today was Yom Kippur the holiest day of the year where a Jew goes to synagogue supposedly earlier than normal to identify with community, and demonstrate solidarity with faith and prayer. Today I should be off shortly and take my seat, reserved and paid for in the community of prayerful. But today, as I sit at my desk, I feel an exhilaration as the sun pours into the study causing shadows off the table and hitting the shelves with brilliance, catching the gold lettering on the bindings. It has warmth that fills me with hope and serenity for the first time in a long while. The usual anxiety I experience, whether fearing the future or an unexplainable sense of foreboding is conspicuously absent this fine morning. Despite the overshadowing of the day, fraught with demands, fasting, praying, penitent, participatory, I am curiously free. On this day I should feel penitent and holy, but instead I feel elated and calm. Plagued by the usual guilt about my inability to function in communal prayer, my intolerance of the public display of piety, I feel spared so far this day.

Into this reverie my daughter Tsiona glides in. Eight months pregnant the large swelling in her abdomen consumes her life now. Talk is usually related to her process and the developing child within. I am so excited about this first grandchild, gender unknown, rather withheld, from Sarah and I, this growing baby within, whom I lovingly address from without whenever I can, "this is you Dada, I love you!" as if it will recognize my voice after delivery, soon, and smile, as if it will smile with re-cognition, or at least re-audition, "aha, so you are my Dada!" it will imply. Tsiona is not feeling well. More a worry as to whether she might survive the 25 hour fast, and not feint...we speak of the "law" and the rights of the pregnant woman to be termed as "sick" automatically allowing dispensations etc. she wishes to fast.

The sun engulfs her, bathing her in a yellow light. It is the autumn sun, with a chill in the air outside it is especially welcome. She stands and does not sit down, as if uncomfortable or with things still to do (such as praying) before she will allow herself the luxury of sitting and relaxing. But her mind seems not ready as yet to "daven" and she sort of hovers as we make small talk.

By now the time has lapsed, that time when entering synagogue does not as yet raise eyebrows that time has gone. Going now would definitively raise eyebrows. I think of Sarah and transgression. How a different biography of my life might be written in the form of a succession of transgressions and heresies. How much Sarah has suffered because of my unwillingness to toe the line, follow the party rules and obey! I think of how right this moment is. The sun, the books, my pregnant daughter and the lateness of the hour. Right now I was where I should be. In this state of being, I felt right despite the day, the late hour, the sacredness of the holiday and Sarah’s watchful eyes. (She can see me even though she is a thousand miles away. She intuitively knows when I transgress, it’s a mystical thing!) Sarah has left long ago for synagogue. We pray at different shuls. In this space between feeling right and transgression I sit.

I suggest we learn a text. Tsiona agrees. We walk into the living room where we sit comfortably and I read her a text. She and I share similar reading practices so the interpretation comes easily and moves us both. I treasure this moment. We are alone. Since her marriage that has been difficult. A father-in-law must be careful not to step on turf I remember my own, when he was careful and when he crossed boundaries I felt were not appropriate. I try to be careful and err on the side of caution. I was away working when she went through her teenage period and missed those precious years. Now that she has been living with us for three months I feel it a special time and am already suffering anticipatory grief as she will soon leave once again for her new home. Knowing this is how the world works, how lives move on, I remain pained by it. Her presence in my home and my life is a light, like the sun. When she enters a room it lights up. Others have noted it too. Her smile radiates warmth and put all at ease.

Soon an hour has past, she is tired and goes down to rest. Sarah will be coming home to be with her. It is time for me to leave. I have no wish to cause her pain by my presence here at 1pm on Yom Kippur. I quietly pick up my things and leave. I feel no regret, no guilt. This morning was divine in its own right. I followed an instinct within and was rewarded by special precious time with my pregnant daughter. Where does the rule of law and the rule within cross? And when they do, how does one negotiate the needs of each? Those questions I leave to another day. I am blessed. I feel it this day. That is quite rare. The sun is now at its peak and welcomes me as I leave my house down the Brooklyn-like stoop.