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When I was 13, I fancied myself an atheist. That year, for the first time, I decided not to go to temple on the High Holy Days. I had attended Talmud Torah Hebrew classes until I was 12. Although I was the top student in my class, I quit Hebrew school before graduation when I realized that I would not have the bar mitzvah I deserved because I was a girl. Girls did not have bat mitzvahs in those days.

Fueled by that anger, I rebelled. At my grandmother's house, where my family gathered for holidays, my wise uncle would not take no for an answer.

"So what if I don't go to temple," I said. "There will be lots of other people without me." "Nobody can take your place. Each person is valuable," he said. "Isn't there something you like about the services?"

I certainly had no interest in the services at my grandparents' synagogue. The rabbi was an old man with a long white beard who waved his forefinger at the congregation and delivered a sermon in Yiddish. The gist of it seemed to be that everything was a sin and God would punish you for sinful behavior. The list of sins was endless. At the junior congregation I attended at home, my main interest was the red-haired boy who led the services.

"Well," I said to my uncle, "I like the choir."

"His face lit up. "So come just for that," he said.

He presented me with a ticket and machzor (prayer book) with my name printed inside. I gave in.

When I studied science and biology in school, I became certain that the wonders of nature, the solar system, the cycle of seasons, the mechanisms of the human body and animals could only have been divinely created. My brief foray into atheism ended and I have gone to services ever since. Now, as a mother and grandmother, I acknowledge my need for prayer and for the spiritual guidance of a rabbi. When I go to temple, I look forward to the rabbi's sermon and am often rewarded with a message that I carry with me afterwards -- sometimes forever.

Many years ago, I attended the bar mitzvah of a friend's son. The reception was held at home. My friends entertained their guests outside in the garden. Instead of chatting about nonsense, the guests drifted into a discussion about the rabbi's sermon that morning, a subject so provocative that the talk lasted several hours. The subject: When, if ever, should a person take the law into his own hands? The conclusion we reached that afternoon was that the law should not be taken into one's own hands except in self-defense. We also concluded that where there is disagreement with existing law, a person has every right to try to change the law by legal means. Otherwise, we live in a jungle. This proved to be an important lesson to teach my growing children.

Another sermon was given by the rabbi of my own congregation. At a relatively young age, the rabbi's father died unexpectedly. Torn with grief, the rabbi gave a sermon with the message "It is far better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all."

I had just met a new friend who was seriously ill and I was hesitant to pursue the friendship knowing I would quickly lose her. After hearing this sermon, we became close friends and were inseparable for two or three years until her death. The relationship brought great pleasure to both of us during that short time. When she died, she left her books to me. I wrote her name in each volume and when I open one, I am reminded of the great friendship I might have missed.

I heard a wonderful sermon when I was away from home on Yom Kippur and was an invited guest at another temple. At that time, a dream I had held all my life appeared to be unattainable. The rabbi gave a sermon "On surviving the death of dreams." I felt as if he spoke only to me. He told the story of Moses, who was distraught when he descended from Mt. Sinai with the Ten Commandments only to find the Israelites worshiping a golden calf. He went on to tell how Moses was again disappointed when God did not let him enter the Promised Land. Moses' way of handling shattered dreams is a lesson in living for all ages. This sermon helped me to deal with my own shattered dreams by picking up the broken pieces and using them to form the basis of a new beginning. Subsequently, I happened upon the book "Overcoming Life's Disappointments" by Rabbi Harold Kushner, which discussed this more fully.

Again, as a guest in a different temple, I heard a sermon on relationships. "You need not remain in a relationship that is toxic to you," this rabbi said. "Close the door on it but," he cautioned, "leave a window open a little." Changes happen. I examined my relationships and realized that one was toxic. I ended the relationship and my life has been better for it.

When I retired to Florida with joy and anticipation, I was surprised to discover the depth of my unhappiness over people and places I had left behind. I had a terrible time adjusting to my new life and longed to go home. My new rabbi's sermon: "Bloom where you are planted." And it worked for me. I made new friends, got involved in new activities and made sure to make enough short visits northward to satisfy my yearning. My writing career has flourished. Blooming where you are planted can apply to things other than location. It can mean making the best of a bad situation in which you may find yourself, i.e. poverty, illness.

I am very happy here now. I belong to a Conservative congregation but often temple-hop to hear other rabbis in my area. Which was my favorite sermon? Each of them when given. I continue to add to the collection.

Toby Rosenstrauch, an award-winning columnist, lives in Boynton Beach, Fla.