For many years I had seen him in our synagogue. He sat in the same seat about in the middle row of pews. He was quiet and serious, punctual and pensive looking. Sometimes he brought a Hebrew book to read at the periodic pauses in the service (or during the rabbi’s sermon).
But you know how it is in a big community. You see the same familiar people all the time, but somehow you never actually are introduced to them.
Finally I made a resolution. I decided it was time for me to introduce myself to the people that I saw all the time in the synagogue. I wanted at last to know with whom was I praying.
“I don’t think we ever have been formally introduced,” I said. “I am Dr. Zahavy.”
“I am Dr. Shema,” he replied.
“Please to meet you Dr. Shema,” I nodded.
“I hope you don’t mind me asking, but what is it that you do?” I continued, wanting at last to sate my curiosity about this person of the synagogue.
“You could say that I am a scribe,” he said with a wry look on his face as he extended to offer me a handshake.
After all this time, we met. Now I wanted to know more about this person, Dr. Shema, the scribe.
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