The day of his bar mitzvah he sang every song in Hebrew. He helped Angela lead the service, and read a brief speech they’d written together. At the conclusion, Angela sang L’chi Lach, “Let us go forward,” a song based on God’s charge to Abraham to seek his destiny. It ends with the refrain, “And you shall be a blessing,” and Angela said, “Mickey Carter, you are a blessing, to everyone in this room.” Mickey beamed. “Thanks! You too!” he said, and the room erupted in applause. Mickey is 27 now, and he still listens to the CD she gave him.

He often has a hard time sitting still for movies or sporting events, but that night he watched the entire service. When it was done, he searched YouTube for videos from Central Synagogue, and watched them all week. The following Friday night, he waited expectantly in front of the TV. Once more, he watched the hourlong service. I was awed. “He must really love it,” I said to my husband, Marc.

I loved Shabbat too when I was a child. Sometimes, just before dusk on Friday, my dad would take my brother and me to my grandfather’s house. Several of my uncles usually joined us. Grandpa served warm potato chips he’d crisped up on a cookie sheet in the oven, slices of Swiss cheese, Dixie cups of ginger ale for the kids, and glasses of schnapps for the grown-ups.

While they chatted around the kitchen table, I caught up with the Sunday comics, the newspaper section Grandpa always saved for me. Uncle Jack, who made a religion of buying in bulk, whether it was industrial size cartons of Kleenex or folding chairs to seat 50, supplied everyone with loaves of challah. It was my favorite food, and every Friday night throughout my childhood, Dad never failed to bring home a loaf of crusty, honey-scented challah dotted with poppy seeds. Mom would light Shabbat candles, and after dinner, we’d go to services. I was an anxious child, but I was soothed by the familiarity and warmth of those weekly rituals. I felt protected, and knew with certainty I was loved.

I tried to recreate that sense of home as safe harbor for my own two children. But after Mickey’s diagnosis, I had struggled to maintain an ordinary family life while meeting the extraordinary needs of my autistic child. It had been a long time since I lit candles, or made much fuss for Shabbat. But the following week I bought a challah, took out candlesticks, and an antique Kiddush cup that had been passed down through Marc’s family. I found a box of Shabbat candles that had languished so long in a kitchen cabinet that the candles had fused into a waxy mass. I pried a pair apart. Mickey set up the “congregation”: an array of plush Muppet toys along the couch. Cookie Monster. Abby Cadabby. Count von Count. Kermit the Frog. Two-Headed Monster. Grover. Elmo. Ernie. Bert.