There’s something I’ve been carrying in my heart for a while, and I want to share it the way I would say it face-to-face: honestly, with love for going to shul, and with no intention of sounding holier-than-thou.

I love going to shul on Shabbos. I love my community. I love seeing familiar faces, hearing the children laugh in the hallways, and feeling the warmth of a place that belongs to all of us. It’s the one time all week when I can step away from the noise of life and simply be with Hashem.

For me, and for many of the women I sit with, Shabbos davening is the point. We wait for it all week. We come to answer Amen with kavanah, to follow every word of Krias HaTorah, to thank Hashem, to ask for what we need, and to listen. When the Aron HaKodesh is open, it feels like Hashem is right there, listening to every tefillah. Those moments feel holy, fragile, and like such a gift.

Lately, it has become harder to hold onto that feeling.

I understand that children talk. They are children, and their voices are part of the life and energy of a shul. But it’s no longer only the children. There is constant conversation coming from the men’s section as well. At times, it becomes impossible for the women’s section to hear the Chazan or the Baal Koreh.

I understand that people want to connect with one another. Community matters. But I want to ask, sincerely and respectfully: if you feel the need to talk during davening, could you please step outside the room?

This time is meant to be between us and Hashem. We are all trying to get there, too.

Men are given the incredible mitzvah of coming to shul and davening three times a day. Three opportunities every single day to stand before Hashem, to open your heart, to ask for parnassah, for health, for shalom bayis, for clarity, for strength. Every person is carrying something. Every person needs brachos. We are living in Golus, trying to hold ourselves together, and these moments in shul are precious.

Sometimes I find myself unable to understand how, while the Aron HaKodesh is open and Krias HaTorah is taking place, people can continue speaking about narishkeit as though nothing holy is happening. Not because anyone should feel afraid, but because how can we not feel the weight and beauty of where we are standing? Hashem is everywhere, but shul is the place we are taught to come especially close to Him. The channels for bracha are open.

Do we not all need something from Hashem?

Why wait, chalilah, for tragedy or pain to wake us up and remind us to turn to Him? Why not use these moments now, while we have them?

(And then there are the phones. During the week, especially, seeing phones out during davening is something I struggle to understand. Someone once gave a mashal: if a person were sitting in a meeting with the head of a major company, discussing a multimillion-dollar contract that could change his entire future, would he sit there scrolling on his phone? Of course not. The phone would be off and put away because the meeting would be too important. Kal vachomer when we stand before Hashem.)

Hashem determines our parnassah, our health, our families, and our lives every single day. Davening is our meeting with Him. How can we treat those moments casually?

I am not preaching, and I am not judging anyone. I am simply asking, as one member of the community to another: please help protect the kedusha of our shuls. Help create an environment where people can hear the davening, concentrate on the Torah reading, and truly connect to Hashem.

Let’s protect the quiet. Let’s use these moments wisely. Let’s remember why we came.

Because when Jews truly daven together, when the Aron is open and hearts are open too, there is nothing more powerful than that.

May all of our tefillos be answered in a revealed way, with the coming of Moshiach now.

Thank you in advance from a fellow davener from behind the mechitzah.