The Sacred Pause: Finding Shabbat in a World That Never Stops
In Her Light by Yaeli Vogel | Please reach out to hello@yaelivogel.com for more information. https://yaelivogel.com/
The notification sounds on my phone had become as natural as breathing. The gentle ping of an email, the buzz of a text message, the cheerful chime of social media alerts—a constant symphony of connection that played throughout my days and, increasingly, my nights. This was the soundtrack of my life as a Jewish marketing professional in Manhattan, where success meant being perpetually available, constantly responsive.
I grew up in a moderately observant home where Shabbat meant Friday night dinner with family, lighting candles and saying the blessings over wine and challah. But by Saturday afternoon, we had typically drifted back to our regular activities—shopping, homework, catching up on work emails. The concept of a full day of rest remained an abstract ideal, something from another time that didn’t quite fit with the demands of modern life.
It wasn’t until my father’s heart attack three years ago that I began to question this perpetual motion. As I sat in the sterile hospital waiting room, my phone buzzing incessantly with work concerns that suddenly seemed trivial, an elderly man with a worn tallit bag sat down beside me. He was there for his wife’s routine check-up, he explained, noticing my distress.
“You know,” he said gently after I explained my situation, “in all my eighty-two years, I’ve never regretted taking Shabbat, but I’ve regretted every Shabbat I didn’t take.”
His words lingered with me, even after my father recovered. What did it mean to truly “take Shabbat” in today’s world? Could the ancient practice offer something I desperately needed but didn’t know how to name?
My journey back to Shabbat observance began tentatively. One Friday evening, I placed my phone in a drawer before lighting candles, promising myself I wouldn’t retrieve it until after Havdalah. The first few hours were excruciating—phantom vibrations in my pocket, anxiety about missed messages, the strange emptiness of time unscheduled and uninterrupted by technology.
But as the evening progressed into the next day, something shifted. I found myself noticing details I had long overlooked: the changing patterns of light through my apartment windows, the voices of children playing in the courtyard below, the complex flavors of food when eaten without the distraction of screens. I read books that had gathered dust on my shelves. I walked to shul and actually observed my neighborhood instead of rushing through it with earbuds in place.
“In all my eighty-two years, I’ve never regretted taking Shabbat, but I’ve regretted every Shabbat I didn’t take.”
Most profoundly, I rediscovered the joy of unrushed conversation. That Shabbat, I invited two neighbors—a couple I had exchanged pleasantries with but never really known—for lunch. Without phones to check or the next appointment looming, our conversation meandered beautifully. We discovered shared connections to a small town in Poland where both our families had originated. We debated the meaning of difficult Torah passages. We laughed until tears came.
“This is what we’ve been missing,” my neighbor, Sarah, said as the couple prepared to leave hours later. “Just being present with each other.”
The following week, I found myself eagerly anticipating Shabbat rather than seeing it as an inconvenience. Week by week, my observance deepened—not from obligation but from recognition of what this sacred pause was giving me.
Of course, embracing Shabbat in a non-stop world isn’t without challenges. I had difficult conversations with my employer about weekend availability. I had to explain to non-Jewish friends why I couldn’t join certain activities. I struggled with FOMO (fear of missing out) when social events happened on Friday nights.
But the rewards have been immeasurable. My creativity at work has flourished, fueled by the mental rest that Shabbat provides. My relationships have deepened through the gift of undivided attention. Most surprisingly, I’ve found that by accepting the limitations of Shabbat, I’ve discovered a profound freedom—the freedom from constant accessibility, the freedom to just be.
The wisdom of our tradition recognized something essential about human nature long before psychological studies confirmed it: we need regular, complete breaks to function at our best. Shabbat isn’t an antiquated restriction but rather a radical act of liberation in a culture that increasingly measures human worth by productivity.
As the pace of life accelerates and technology further blurs the boundaries between work and rest, I’ve found that this ancient practice speaks more urgently to our modern condition than ever before. Shabbat isn’t just a religious obligation; it’s a revolutionary statement about what makes life meaningful.
That elderly man in the hospital waiting room was right. I don’t regret a single Shabbat I’ve observed, but I do regret the ones I missed—each representing twenty-five hours when I could have been fully present in my life rather than scattered across a thousand digital distractions.
In embracing this cornerstone of our mesorah, I’ve discovered that these traditions contain timeless wisdom that each generation must rediscover for itself. The sacred pause of Shabbat isn’t just a practice from our past—it may be the very thing that allows us to cultivate a saner, more connected Jewish future.
Charlene Trino is a Jewish writer and marketing professional based in Manhattan, exploring the intersection of tradition and modern life. Her work reflects her journey of rediscovering sacred rhythms in a world of constant motion.
More in this section:
The Artistry of Shabbat Lights by David Olivestone
Shabbat Candles: Halachot and Customs by Rabbi Dr. Ari Z. Zivotofsky
The Sacred Pause: Finding Shabbat in a World That Never Stops by Charlene Trino
The Shabbat Table That Found Me: Filling the Silence with Women’s Voices by Shirley Parker
Shabbat in a Changed Israel: How Israelis Have Embraced Shabbat Since October 7 by Carol Ungar