For my column this month, I’m borrowing from the correspondent who had inspired my March column with his statement: “I try to do a good deed every day.” An insightful concept, I reasoned, one with a path forward for the good of self and the world. I wrote about it, and some readers wrote back to me that they had thought about it. I hope they are continuing to do so.

Now, with a little twist on the notion, I propose this statement: What did you learn today? That idea harkens back to table talk at dinners held in my growing-up home, so many years ago, when I and my brother, having sat politely quiet while our parents exchanged thoughts on the day’s news and activities, would at some point, feel the heat of our father’s gaze sweep around the table. Usually, that gaze fell directly on me. My brother, dear as he was as the elder, and the son (that’s a topic for another column), my father assumed, I suspect, that a typical chatterbox elementary school child would provide more lively commentary than a predictably taciturn teenager more interested in social-izing than social studies. With seriousness of purpose in his voice, but a playful smile on his lips, my father would inquire of me, “And what did you learn today?”

Not the least bit shy — eager, in fact, to burst forth with unrestrained release about what Miss Stehlinger had said in school that day, or that I was the leader of the line to the lunch room, or that Taffy, my beloved orange tabby, was hiding under my quilt and I couldn’t find him for a long time, and I was so worried. “But what did you learn today?” my father would press on. What I learned, finally, after many such awkward moments, was to come to dinner prepared with something substantive I’d learned.

These days, I don’t seek a daily learning lesson, but oddly, lessons surface, often unexpectedly in places equally odd — like, for example, at the Purim party at our shul last month, held early on a Friday evening, followed by a Shabbat service. Absent a few plans with my friend Judith, or visiting family over holiday weekends, I’ve attended virtually every Shabbat service — Friday evening and Saturday morning for the past five years — three as the shul’s vice president, two as president. (No applause necessary.)

So there we were, Queen Esthers in crown or tiara, Hamans in black, plus a Superman, a gangster, and various souvenir T-shirts, hats and all manner of unidentifiable get-ups devised by persons at the shul and online. Reading the Megillah of Esther in Purim costumes was certainly appropriate considering the cast of characters appearing in the ancient story. Even the wine — the real stuff, and yes, more than a quick swallow —not the usual thimble-sized cups of Kedem grape juice — was in keeping with Purim’s uninhibited revelry.

Not that there aren’t lessons to be learned from celebrations of Purim with Queen Esther’s bravery and commitment to saving the Jewish people. But my lesson came as a result of a brief observation during the Shabbat service that followed. Of course, everyone was still attired in outlandish costumes, Rabbi Gadi himself in a cross-cultural Hawaiian shirt and gargantuan sombrero hat. Nevertheless, he took his tallit in hand, kissed it, quietly recited the blessing, and slipped it around his shoulders in a symbolic act of Jewish identity, tradition and closeness to God.

In the past, I’ve often found fault with bluejeans worn at services, baseball hats instead of yarmulkas, Bermuda shorts on summer days. I learned that night that wardrobe choices do not reflect spirituality, piousness, or the lack thereof. Rabbi Gadi, in his loud shirt and ridiculous head covering led the prayerful Esthers and Hamans, never doubting their devotion to faith — and I never doubting the rabbi’s sincerity to invoke the name of God or deliver God’s message evident within the weekly parsha.

I’ve always felt that prayer is a viable communication anywhere — in the sanctuary, on a walk, at the water’s edge, sitting on your front porch, in bed as you close your eyes for the night. My Purim lesson is this: The appropriate dress for prayer is not how you wrap your body, but how you unwrap your heart.

—Sara Bloom