The instinct to call out to the divine in times of need seems to be part of human experience. How we do so, the words we choose or the actions we take may vary, but the impulse itself runs deep. Each of us is wired to think, feel and express differently, and we bring our unique personalities to the way we pray. Prayer can be structured or spontaneous, spoken or silent; whether through joining a minyan, reciting Tehillim in a women’s group or davening quietly at home, prayer connects us to Am Yisrael, to our past and to the Almighty. I have been blessed with the opportunity to observe many different approaches to prayer—each shaped by an individual’s perspective and feeling.
On the surface, you might not realize that my son Yosef is a deeply spiritual person. Due to his autism, he struggles with many basic concepts and has difficulty understanding anything he cannot take in visually. Yet when it comes to God, Yosef has no confusion. He knows, with simple and pure certainty, that God is in charge of everything, from the weather to human health.
Yosef has developed his own unique ritual for speaking to God, one that always involves reading Hebrew. The particular words don’t seem to matter; what matters is the act of reading. Sometimes he says a few pesukim from the weekly parsha, other times a few words from Ashrei. Once he reads something in Hebrew, a ritual he has created as a gateway to conversation with the divine, he feels ready to speak freely to God.
His conversations with Hashem are strikingly personal. He usually begins by saying, “Hashem, Hashem,” at least twice, and then shares updates about his life: birthdays, holidays, family vacations—the kind of news you would tell a close friend. After sharing, he proudly tells Hashem about the mitzvot he has done, like counting the Omer. Only afterward does he make requests—most often about the weather, asking for sunny skies, a perfect temperature, or no rain.
Recently, however, Yosef’s prayers have shifted. After my nephew Eyal was seriously wounded in Gaza, Yosef saw me crying. Without hesitation, he hugged me and said, “Don’t worry, Mommy. I’m going to ask Hashem to make Eyal better. You don’t need to cry.” His simple, unshakable faith that Hashem listens and can heal is breathtaking. He truly believes that Eyal will recover because he asked God to help.
Watching Yosef pray is to witness something pure and profound. In his relationship with Hashem, there is no need for elaborate praise, no hesitation, no uneasiness, he simply speaks, because to him, God is close, a trusted and loving friend. In a world that is often complicated and overwhelming for him, Yosef’s connection to God is natural, easy, without anxiety or doubt.
It is the purest, most uncomplicated approach to prayer I have ever seen. I was inspired by Yosef’s approach to prayer. I was recently in Israel and when I visited the Kotel, upon reaching the wall, I did not daven Mincha or say Tehillim. I had a dialogue with God and cried and requested and thanked. It was a personal and powerful moment, and maybe that kind of honest conversation can be meaningful for you, too.
Many of the men in my life are drawn to prayer through the structure of halacha (Jewish law). They never miss a minyan, carefully timing Shacharit to meet the halachic deadline for zman Krias Shema (the latest time for reciting Shema, based on astronomical calculations). As the sun begins to set, they stop everything to say Mincha.
For them, halacha provides a framework that channels feelings of chaos or uncertainty into action. It connects them to tradition, community and God’s expectations, especially in difficult times. The precise words and movements become expressions of feeling, offering comfort through structure.
Even when emotions are hard to access, halacha allows them to show up authentically for those they pray for. Ritual itself creates a holy space, a quiet, powerful conversation with the Almighty.
Saying Tehillim during times of war, illness or uncertainty connects individuals to generations of Jews who have turned to these same words in moments of trial. In our community, we have many Tehillim groups, some meeting online, others in person. Our first instinct upon hearing troubling news is often to open a book of Tehillim and begin to pray.
While many men do say Tehillim, I have found that most organized groups are led by women, and most of the participants are women as well. Perhaps this is because, throughout history, women have often been the emotional heart of their families and communities—the ones who absorb the pain of others, carry hope in times of darkness and seek connection when answers are elusive. In the words of Tehillim, women find both voice and comfort, giving shape and a space for emotions that might otherwise feel overwhelming. What else can one do when you hear that a good friend has a devastating illness, or a beautiful young man is shot in service to his country, and has a life-altering injury? We can take our fears and sadness and ask our friends and community to say Tehillim with us.
The words themselves can be difficult to fully understand, yet the power of Tehillim lies not only in its language but in the emotional space it creates. It offers an outlet for sorrow, rage, brokenness, confusion and hope. In saying Tehillim, one can cry without fear of judgment, sit with pain without needing to explain it and feel seen by the One who knows the deepest thoughts of the heart. It is a place where there are no demands for answers.
There are times when we pray to God from a place of complete humility. Sometimes, all we can do is repeat a single word: “Please.” This simple act of “bakashah—asking,” gives me the space to admit that I don’t have all the answers. Should I pray for healing? If I pray for healing, is that asking God for a miracle? Should I request a quick and painless death? For the strength to live in constant pain? Who can truly know what is right for someone else? I don’t have to know. I can surrender to emotional humility. I have faith that God knows, and so I simply ask: “Please, do what only You can know is right, and only You can do.”
Prayer allows for both structure and spontaneity. It gives us a way to express complicated emotions, faith and doubt, strength and vulnerability, clarity and confusion. Ematai, an organization dedicated to helping Jews navigate aging and end-of-life decisions with wisdom and halacha, created the “Tefillah Project” for those that turn to tefillah during times of illness and need. We’ve compiled the most recited tefillot, including Tehillim chapters, into a booklet to make them easier to access and share. For deeper explanations and video reflections, please visit our website: https://www.ematai.org/prayers/.
Bassie Taubes is the director of community outreach for Ematai, an organization dedicated to integrating Jewish wisdom into healthcare decision-making. She is the owner of Wellness Motivations in Teaneck, NJ, where she works as a health coach, fitness instructor and advocate for well-being. Additionally, Bassie serves as the rebbetzin of Congregation Zichron Mordechai in Teaneck, combining her professional expertise with her communal leadership role.
