He told me to meet him at the synagogue at two o'clock. I arrived early, as usual. After knocking on the door that led to the sanctuary a fourth time, I figured he just hadn't arrived yet. I waited for him on the steps while the wind played nice and blew softly in my hair. As I sat twirling my clumsy thumbs, I started to feel a little self-conscious. It wasn't because this church-raised girl wanted to talk to a total stranger about conversion.

No, I was feeling a little uneasy because the wind reminded me of my spaghetti-strap-tank-top-wearing Gentileness. This rabbi, he was Orthodox, was he not? After my experience with a Muslim friend, who seemed as devout, I felt that perhaps I should have worn something with sleeves. Seems like women are always supposed to look modest in the stricter versions of the world's religions. And so, the inner-debate in my head began.

The players: "Hey, it's a hot summer day!" vs. "Jesus, Emily, it's a synagogue," center court.

The Match:

"I don't want to sweat in front of him," backhand lob…

"It's called deodorant," swing, hit -- the insult goes long…

"I can't exactly put it on my face," smash, volley…

"Well, God knows you need to," fast hit to center court…

"What the hell am I supposed to do? It's ninety fucking degrees," super-smash hit…

"Well!"

Someone in the stands screams "Shut the hell up!" and it's me. As insults and profanity suddenly become impotent, the players approach each other, get tangled in the net, bounce back and hit the clay.

Just as I convinced myself to shut the hell up, I looked down at my open-toed sandals. Their pleather straps strained to contain my doublewide feet. The poor things looked like they couldn't stomach my enormous toes and were forced to puke them out.

I heard keys jangle behind me. Turning around, I saw a rabbi walking through a door -- the one I had been knocking on (desperately, I admit) only a few minutes earlier. He looked too young to be a spiritual advisor.

"Hi, Rabbi Silverman?" I asked.

"Emily?" he replied.

"That's me," I said, getting up.

As I extended my hand, he shied away, explaining that men and women are not to touch unless they are married, father and daughter, or mother and son. At least I think that's what he said; I was almost too embarrassed to hear him, what with the blood flooding my ears and all. I followed him into the sanctuary feeling very silly and sat down with him at a long folding table -- the kind I associate with church potlucks.

 "So Emily, what brings you here? You mentioned on the phone that you were looking to convert. Tell me, in which faith were you raised?"

Noticing that his olive complexion matched mine (further proof I should be welcomed into the fold), I said, "Christian. I was raised in the Presbyterian Church."

"I see. And why do you think Judaism is for you?"

"Well, I had this dream."

Should I tell this man my dream? I knew I'd regret my stupid bluntness. However, I also knew my incurable infatuation for self-sabotage, so it would come out eventually. And, it was only a matter of time before the taboo subject of my li'l mental illness might rear its ugly head, too. Hi, I'm Ms. Demented. Pleased to meet you, Rabbi. Say, mind if I smoke?

"A dream?" he asked.

"Yes. Uh, it may sound a little silly but after the dream, I woke up… well, I was convinced that God had sent me a message that I should convert to Judaism. I've always been interested in your customs: I think it started with the dreidel song we learned in church. Or maybe that was just my mom who taught it to us -- she's very inclusive."

"I see."

"Well, I had this dream that I was standing at a long table… kinda, kinda like this one. There was a long, super-thin candle -- it was white and about six inches tall. The candle, it was in a small holder and I walked up to it. There was a man standing to my left. I could tell he was very old and wise and that he was there to help me. It was dark and I couldn't see him very well, but then I didn't turn to look at him directly, either. So anyway, by the candle, there was this lighter thingie. It was thin, too, and shaped like a cross, only the base of it was very, very long," I said, extending my arms to show how long it was, "and the top horizontal part was super short. So it -- well, it could have passed for a cross, technically I guess, but it didn't really look like a cross you'd see at church or hanging around somebody's neck, you know?"

"Okay."

"At any rate, I picked up this cross-lighter thing and noticed it was gold and heavy. I knew that it was important, like it was something you'd use in rituals or whatever. And I felt as if I should light the candle, so I did. And, like, this flat, bright blue flame shot from it…." I was dying to describe the actual color I saw. It was so beautiful and felt very, well, spiritual -- a blue that could burn through anything, anything at all. It made me feel humble. But the words I needed to describe the color and what it did to my inner goo refused to show their perfect little faces.

"I lit the candle and when I put the cross-lighter down, I noticed something in one of my palms—there were five points there," I showed him my palm, pointing out the invisible scars that surely were there -- you know, in spirit. "Now, I had just heard how Sammy Davis Jr. turned Jewish, you know, when he was having a seizure or something, and his Jewish friends placed a metal star of David in his palm and it left scars? He has three that you can still see -- or, well, he's dead, but you could see the scars up until the day he died, you know? Anyway, I think that story might have caused that part of the dream, but the clincher for me was when I turned to the man beside me and it was God. I said, 'God, I think I'm Jewish!' And He smiled gently at me, and I started to cry. Then I woke up and it just seemed so clear and true, I rolled over and woke up my boyfriend" -- SHIT! He'll think I'm a harlot now for sure -- "Uh, I, um, I called and um, woke, him up and said, 'Honey -- I'm Jewish.'"

"That's quite a dream, Emily."

"Yeah. So I guess I thought I should try to find out more about being Jewish and stuff. That's how I got your name, through Michael, who goes here."

"Yes, Michael."

"Yup. Michael."

"Emily, since your father was Jewish and not your mother, Jewish law states that you aren't Jewish -- the lineage is not passed to the children through the father, it's passed through the mother. So, it's only if a Jewish woman marries a Gentile and they have children that the children can claim to be Jewish."

"Um, my dad isn't Jewish either though, so I guess that doesn't help matters."

"No? Katz is such a Jewish name."

"Oh. That's Capps. Funny, that happens all the time. Even at the Jewish Community Center when we lived in New Orleans. I don't think they were happy when they realized their mistake. Great pool though, glad I got in regardless. God, one counselor -- she taught disco -- man, she was kinda… well, anyway. Guess that's not the point, ha ha."

Rabbi Silverman looked down. I could tell he was kind, but I feared I was trying his patience. But hey, I was serious. I felt like I needed religion. God pointed me in the right direction -- at least I assumed it was the right direction. I mean, how often do you hear about God sending someone down the wrong path? Just down that way, little Emily, yup, that way. It's straight to hell with you, off you go. I mean, come on now! And the conviction I had when I woke up was intense. It couldn't have been just neurons firing funny. The dream was placed in my head by God Himself, Rabbi Silverman be damned.

Suddenly, I began to cry. Not a dainty drop or two, but big, fat, ugly ones that make your cheeks scrunch up from the heat of them. I was certain my face was turning purple. Snot slowly began to melt, threatening: "We'll do it, we swear. We're getting nice and liquidy!"

Rabbi Silverman quickly left the table, went off somewhere, and was back in no time with a box of tissues. And thank God it was full.

"I'm… I'm s-s-sorry," I babbled.

"It's okay," he said kindly, though I could detect a weight to his voice.

Bare shoulders bobbing up and down, I filled the flimsy tissue with a pint of fluid from various cranial orifices. I sucked in a bunch of air that tripped in my throat on its way down, and stared, eyes weighing a ton, at my embarrassed knees. I could tell they were embarrassed because they were naked in a House of God (Orthodox no less), and they were turning blotchy and red like they were crying, too.

"I'm sorry," I repeated, as tears returned to threatening formation.

"Take your time."

"It's just -- I'm so fucking sad. I go to a counselor and all, but I, I feel like I need a religious thread to cling to. To belong to, damn it." My sentences now came in hiccupping waves, riddled with fabulous four-letter words.

"I… I used to hear voices." Oh Jesus, here we go. "I don't any-anymore, but f-for half of my-my l-l-life, for HALF of my FUCKING life, I th-thought I heard the d-devil telling me that he-he-he wanted my soul. To s-s-sell my soul…." A short series of kck, kch, kckk noises followed on the heels of my verbal self-gutting.

"I just want to be fucking happy and I-- I-- I--" aye, aye, aye. I was cursing like a spaghetti-strapped harlot in a place of God, in front of a man of God, in the hopes of converting to one of God's first religions. Holy shit!

"Oh my God! I'm-I'm s-s-so…." The gravity of my depression-induced foolishness hit, causing a new batch of tears to swell and give up their lives for the cause. Unfortunately, a bunch of clotted snotties turned into loose fluid and made a rather sudden and unexpected run for the nose-border, just to top off the whole messy affair.

"I'm so sorry, I… I cuss like a sailor. I can't believe I'm saying this shit in a-o-o-ohhh! I'm sorry, rabbi. I'm sorry."

"Emily," he said. "I feel sorry for you. It is obvious to me that you are in pain. I think that your counseling is good, but perhaps you can devote some time to helping others. Doing so makes people feel better, and it may help you restore your sense of self to the way God meant it to be -- good. Perhaps you'd like to work at a soup kitchen or a literacy project. There is so much to be done.

"And Emily, as far as you converting to Judaism, I must tell you, as an Orthodox Jew I have to do my best to discourage you from trying to join the faith. You see, Reform Jews and Orthodox Jews are at odds about letting non-Jews convert. You will have an easier time with them if you really want to pursue this. But the reason for the divide is that the Orthodoxy believes Judaism should remain along bloodlines, not just confessions of faith. I say this to discourage you, yes, but not because I believe you to be a bad person. I say it as a test. Because of the Orthodox adherence to bloodlines, we believe a non-Jew must face very difficult tests of faith, and ultimately, very few pass these tests. We are very strict. You understand, don't you?"

"Yes, of course," I said. My tears had gone, but they'd left a puffy battleground that could be picked up by passing spy satellites.

"Rabbi, thank you for your time. I'm sorry I lost it like that. But, I do want to look into it. The feeling I had… it, it was so strong."

"I wish you luck in it, Emily. Of course you can visit me any time if you need to…."

Yeah, right. Like I'd ever show my face around his temple again. And I haven't yet. But I thank him for being such a sweetie—thank him as I drive by the synagogue on occasion. Although I'd like to pop in and say, "Hey, I just wanted to let you know I'm okay. Oh, and I dropped the Judaism thing a week after I saw you. Guess you were right."

I haven't. He might ask me what was wrong, what led to all the trouble, the depression, the voices, the devil, the everything. I might have to tell him the truth.