This was not my idea.

My husband – who is a goy, I mean Christian, organized, and deeply committed to concepts like “nine consecutive days of the same thing” – suggested I try a novena. For structured prayer. On gratitude. Nine days, he said.

Structured prayer? You mean like a rosary? Jews don’t have rosaries. We only have the good pearls.

Oy. Nine days? Like all day, or just ten minutes?

Lord, before we begin, is this negotiable?

Day 1

Lord, I am grateful.

I am grateful for my husband, who suggested this novena and who I have not yet told that I am already questioning the terms.

I am grateful for my dogs, who love me unconditionally and do not care that I am sitting on my tuchas talking to the ceiling instead of walking them.

And Lord, I am grateful for my breast reduction.

I came into this world with the body of a Cossack, which I cannot explain and did not request. The perfect boob fits in a wine goblet. Mine fit in a kiddush cup. I’m not complaining. I’m grateful.

Also, I said the Shema twice this morning. Does that count for two days? I want it on the record.

Day 2

Lord, today I am grateful for my ancestors.

Especially my great grandmother Mollie, may she rest in peace, who survived three husbands. No one is entirely certain who my great grandfather was.

Mollie understood options. After all, Nikolai was already husband three, after Avram got bitten by a wolf and died.

A wolf.

And what kind of Jewish name is Nikolai?

Lord, I don’t understand this novena thing, and it hasn’t even been nine minutes. Am I supposed to chant? Because I don’t know anything but the Shema and I feel like that’s not going to cover nine days.

I said it twice. Does that count for two days?

I also need a cigarette.

I had unclean thoughts.

I’d rather not elaborate but I feel like you already know, which is honestly the most unsettling part of this whole arrangement.

Lord, is this nine days firm?

Day 3

Lord, my mother would kill me if she knew I was doing this. And Bubbe – oy. Do you know what a kniption is? Of course you do. You invented it.

I made a little kugel. Is eating allowed? I always have a little nosh in my bag at shul.

I’m going to close my eyes for a minute. Meditate. That counts, right?

Al found me on the floor.

“Honey, why are you sleeping? This is your novena time, remember?”

I sputtered.

“My blood sugar dropped. I fainted.”

There was a pause.

“Why are there noodles and apricots on the bed?”

Day 4

Lord, I’m in the shower. Water is holy. You made the mikveh. This is important to note.

Nine days. This already feels like a punishment, and I didn’t even steal the purse at Nordstrom. I thought about it. But thinking doesn’t count, right?

It would have matched my new dress. And don’t even get me started on that buttinsky at shul. She thinks she’s special because her purses have monograms on them.

Lord, help me. I’m turning into my mother. I think I have a dybbuk. Someone call a priest. I mean a rabbi.

Lord, this novena is becoming a part-time job.

I have shpilkes. Not the little annoying ones. The emese ones.

I’ve been thinking, Lord.

You invented Chanukah. One day of oil that lasted eight. Nobody planned that. Nobody asked for it. It just happened because it needed to.

I’m asking you to consider the possibility that my four days could last the full nine. A little miracle. Nothing dramatic. Efficient.

You’ve done it before.

Not as a rule. Just this once.

Time served. Does that work for you, Lord?

Amen.

 

Dana Wolf is a Philadelphia native who now lives in rural northwestern Pennsylvania. She writes humor, fiction, and nonfiction. Her work has appeared in Little Old Lady Comedy and is forthcoming in Defenestration. She is the author of Ruckus Louise, Still Speaking from Heaven, a memoir about her beloved dog.