When The Dream Feels Old: A Prayer for Rosh Hashanah
Since we landed at Ben Gurion—after four flights that were supposed to be three, broken suitcases, very little sleep, and more chaos than I care to admit—I have felt a constant, almost overwhelming rush of emotion and gratitude.
I can’t believe I am finally here.
We are finally in Israel.
For years, I dreamed about being here. For the past fifteen Rosh Hashanas since I was here last, I have prayed for this. Year after year, I asked G-d to help us find a way to return.
And now, somehow, I am back.
Back in the land I have missed so desperately.
I hear Hebrew on the streets. I hear the shofar when I walk out my front door. I never feel the urge to tuck my Israel necklace into my shirt when grocery shopping or visiting the library. I walk everywhere feeling at home—even though I still manage to get lost almost everywhere I go.
Being here is a dream.
Perhaps what makes it feel even more extraordinary is that for so many years, this was a dream that felt like it might never happen.
I think we all have those dreams.
The dreams we carry quietly for years. The things we ask for over and over again. The hopes we bring with us into our tefillot each Rosh Hashana.
And then another year passes, and the dream remains nothing more than a dream.
We find ourselves standing in the same place, reciting the same words, the same phrases, sometimes almost by rote. We cry the same tears.
There is something deeply exhausting about continuing to hope for something that hasn’t come to fruition.
It can be demoralizing. It can make us question whether we should keep hoping, or asking. Whether we should allow ourselves to want this thing so badly in the face of so much disappointment.
This experience of dreaming, waiting, and wondering is not new to us. It is part of the Jewish story.
Sarah dreamed of having a child for decades. The Israelites in Egypt waited two hundred and ten years for their freedom. For generations, Jews dreamed of returning to the Land of Israel, carrying that longing through exile, persecution, and centuries of prayers unfulfilled.
We are a people who know what it means to dream and to wait.
When I think about what it means to carry a dream year after year—returning to the same prayer, weary from carrying the same request, I am reminded of a verse from Psalm 71 which features at the heart of our Selichot service
אַל תַּשְׁלִיכֵֽנוּ לְעֵת זִקְנָה כִּכְלוֹת כֹּחֵֽנוּ אַל תַּעַזְבֵֽנוּ:
“Do not cast us in the time of old age. When our strength fails, do not forsake us.”
I often wondered about this verse. Why is it necessary to ask G-d not to abandon us in old age or frailty? Is that something G-d would do, leaving us precisely in our hour of greatest need?
Surely there are other ways to understand these words. Perhaps “old age” isn’t merely about lifespan, but may also speak to dreams grown old and tired. A prayer we have carried for so long that our strength begins to fail. A dream that once felt vibrant and full of possibilities, but has worn thin after years of waiting, disappointment, and prayers unanswered.
“When our strength fails, do not forsake us.”
G-d, when our dreams grow old, please don’t leave us.
Grant us the strength to ask again.
When we can’t see a way forward, help us find a new path.
Carry this dream with us, when our arms feel weak, even if You are not yet ready to grant it.
Give us the courage to keep pursuing what we once thought possible, despite the amount of time that has passed.
Most importantly: Don’t let us abandon our dreams simply because it has taken longer than we ever imagined.
Sometimes we don’t know how close we truly are.
Sometimes the prayer we have been saying for fifteen years is the prayer that will finally be answered in year sixteen.
This Rosh Hashanah, may we find the strength to renew and refresh our dreams, even the ones that are heaviest, and know that we need not bear them alone.
May we never mistake the length of the journey for the impossibility of the destination.
