Years ago, an 18-year old in my congregation had a terrible accident. A hundred of us gathered at the hospital, wondering if the boy would live. After an agonizing week, we learned that Jacob would survive, but he had severe brain damage.

For months, Jacob struggled through physical therapy. He had to learn to speak all over again, to walk, to hold a fork, even to say his name. Every few weeks, I would call his mother to check on his condition, and each time I would extend the same invitation: I don’t want to rush you, but when he’s ready, we’d love to give him an aliyah. And every time, she gave me the same answer. “Jacob still isn’t ready yet.”

The High Holidays were coming, and I was busy making the arrangements – giving out the honors, ordering the flowers, you name it. The arrangements went smoothly, but there was just one problem. Who should I ask to light the candles and lead Shehecheyanu on Erev Rosh Hashanah? Who was the one who most captured the miracle of the year that was ending?

And then suddenly, on the morning before Rosh Hashanah, it hit me. I called Jacob’s mother and asked if she and her family would do it. And of course, I got her usual answer. But I persisted, and finally she agreed.

The sanctuary was full that night, as Jacob went up to the bemah to do the opening reading. At first, his voice was strong, but then it got weaker. None of us knew whether he would make it. He got so tired that he had to pause with every word. And at every pause, you could feel 600 people, quietly praying, “Please, God, give him strength.”

Somehow, Jacob got through it. And as his parents came up to say Shehecheyanu, his father shook my hand. “Art”, he told me, “I didn’t realize it until now, but thus was the first time he was able to read out loud since his accident.”

Those moments of silence were truly moments of prayer – a word derived from the Latin precar, to beg or to entreat. Hundreds of us were silently asking God to help Jacob, to give him the strength to say one more word, to save him from being humiliated in front of the community. And more than that, we were praying that this courageous young man would somehow find healing.

But prayer, in the sense of precar, is not the center of Jewish worship. Instead, our tradition asks us to engage in the process of t’filah, an ancient Hebrew word that means to judge ourselves, to look inward, to see ourselves as we really are.

We listen to our prayers, and we come to understand our yearnings, our hopes, our tragedies, and little by little we discover the God inside us. T’filah changes the world because it changes us. Like water dripping on stone, it makes us rounder, softer, more accepting of who we are. And perhaps, too, if makes us more able to see the good in others, to listen, to help, to care.

That night when Jacob struggled, we had a moment of precar. But what really changed us was the moment when we said Shehecheyanu, the moment when we realized that we had not reached this moment by ourselves. Yes, we had built a community where Jacob and his family could find comfort. And yes, we had sat with them in the hospital. But the Holy One had guided us and sustained us every step of the way.

Through T’filah, we come to see the world as it really is. We realize that life is not always easy. There are times when we go through terrible struggles. But God has placed a spark within us, a spark of hope, a spark of kindness, a spark of connection. And we can give this spark to others.

Jacob still had months of therapy to go. But with the help of community and the help of God, he fully recovered. Today, he is a happy, strapping man, with a wife and two kids.

May the Holy One continue to guide us every step of the way.