I was seated on an uncomfortable metal folding chair in a parking lot, directly facing the garbage dumpster, with the sun in my eyes, trying to breathe through a mask, and the humidity and heat causing my glasses to fog up so I could barely see. And then I had to wrestle with the mechitza curtains that blew over my head in the random gusts of breeze.

Clearly not the best environment. But after three months of exile from my beloved minyan at Congregation Ahavas Achim in Highland Park, I was ready to do anything to return. Even if it meant braving the elements and perching on what may be the most uncomfortable chair ever made.

Being in “my” minyan meant a world of difference. Praying by oneself did have the advantage of never falling behind everyone else in davening, but it just wasn’t the same. I missed hearing the familiar voices and the unspoken sense of camaraderie. True, I’ve been in contact with some of my shul friends via text and email, but it wasn’t the same. Approaching the parking lot, and seeing the nods and little hand waves acknowledging my arrival filled me with an unexpected emotional connection.

With outdoor gatherings limited to 25 people, and men given the overwhelming majority of spaces, online signups were implemented. By the time I navigated the technology, the few seats allotted to women were all taken. I was devastated.

Make that devastated and shocked. I was stunned at how much I was looking forward to going to shul. I hadn’t expected to feel that way. I’d stay home during inclement weather without a qualm and often have a hard time getting ready in the morning, at times arriving shortly before kiddush. So why did I feel so mournful at not getting a seat?

I was thrilled to hear that my favorite uber-early morning minyan was not as desirable as the other offerings and I was offered an extra spot on Friday morning when it was not fully subscribed by men. I was so happy upon hearing the news that I am sure anyone near me would have seen flowers and rainbows massing around me in classic Disney-movie style.

Waking up extra early that Shabbat, I nearly ran all the way to shul. I was so excited to be there. Even without normal aliyot, having to wear a mask and without our regular post-davening kiddush, coffee and congregant shmooze session. It was so wonderful to be back!

With state regulations changing at lightning speed, it was quickly learned that indoor minyanim could be held this past Shabbat. Our ritual committee quickly set up the new rules and procedures that allowed for a total of 50 people at each minyan. The increase in numbers meant that I would have no difficulty getting a seat, but I made sure to sign up quickly just to make sure.

The davening approached normalcy with the ability to have aliyot—even if there was an impermeable mechitza separating the Torah reader from the person called up. Even the Torah seemed particularly happy to come out—crystals in the Torah’s mantle reflected the sunlight from the windows and I was sure they sparkled as a way of smiling at the congregants as it was brought down the aisle to the bimah.

We still had to bring our own siddur and Chumash, and do the beginning parts at home so there would be enough time to run three minyanim each Shabbat. Singing of certain parts of davening was eliminated in the interest of time, but there was enough done as a group to remind us of what we had been missing.

Although we were indoors in the main sanctuary, and not the normal beit midrash location, it still felt like a homecoming. The seats were more comfortable, the climate controlled and my view was a huge improvement over the garbage dumpster. The new “normal” means that there are tables with hand sanitizer, assigned seats where we can be assured of social distancing, masks required for all attendees, gloves provided for those who touch the Torah, no sermon, only an abridged version of announcements and of course—no kiddush.

There is much that is different, but there is much that is the same. Our davening is the same, the voices are the same and the location is the same.

State-issued regulations regarding COVID-19 have changed many times and will continue to change rapidly. Regulations have moved from allowing outdoor gatherings of 10 people to indoor gatherings of 50 (at least as I am writing this; things may change at any moment). Who knows what will happen by next Shabbat? Or next month? Or by Rosh Hashanah?

I do know that whatever changes are made now, nothing will ever compare to the feeling I had that first Shabbat when the physical discomforts of my folding chair, sun glare, humidity and a view of a dumpster gave way to happiness, peace, contentment and absolute joy.

By Deborah Melman