I was also grateful for those precious moments of being liberated from my device

Having the zechus to be in Eretz Yisrael is something I do not take lightly. Whenever I’m there, I walk Yerushalayim’s streets as much as possible, to try to absorb the kedushah. This is especially true on Chanukah, when every home and apartment building you pass displays beautifully arranged menorahs.

After davening Minchah at the Kosel, I realized I could walk back to Ramat Eshkol and make it in time for Chanukah lighting.

I am not blessed with the greatest sense of direction. My phone’s Google Maps is my security blanket in case I lose my way — which happens often.

Sure enough, after twenty minutes of walking, I realized I had veered far off course. This was not surprising, as I was also listening to a shiur through my earphones. But I was not too concerned; I could just rely on Maps to get me home.

Suddenly, the shiur stopped playing.

I checked my phone and saw that I had completely drained the battery.

In the States, I’m rarely away from my office or my car for the entire day, so I had never experienced a “dead” phone. But I was not perturbed by the loss of my phone. In fact, my first emotion was a feeling of liberation.

I was disappointed about missing out on the rest of the shiur; however, that disappointment was outweighed by the joy of being freed from my electronic leash. Not having my phone would force me to do something we rarely do anymore: interact face-to-face with other human beings.

After getting a few different answers about which direction to take, I decided to try what seemed to me the correct route.

No sooner had I turned onto a side street than I noticed a man hurrying toward a building. His facial expression communicated that he was on his way to daven. It was time for Maariv.

I followed him into the shul, and, most fortuitously for me, they were just about to begin.

I looked for a sink to wash my hands. Lo and behold, in the side room with the sink and the requisite coffee urn, there was also a box with small cubbies and little wires protruding from them.

I realized that these were phone chargers. How much better could it get? While I was recharging my neshamah, my phone battery was getting its own replenishment.

As I retrieved my recharged phone after Maariv, I experienced feelings of both relief and wistfulness.

Relief, because I could now contact my wife and explain my tardiness. But I was also wistful, because I was rejoining the world connected by handheld devices that deprive us normal interaction and engagement with real human beings.

Yet despite my minor feelings of melancholy, I was filled with gratitude toward the Master Planner Who allowed me to find a shul that was starting Maariv and also offered a place to charge my phone.

And I was also grateful for those precious moments of being liberated from my device. These moments granted me the opportunity to truly connect with Yerushalayim and its beautiful people.

As I walked on, I recalled with a sense of lost innocence those times when our primary mode of communication was through face-to-face encounters with real people and not through WhatsApp voice messages.

I recalled those long-gone days when people would simply “pick up the phone” to call a friend without feeling the need to text them first and receive permission.

I pine for those simpler times.

Of course, before I had time to wax too nostalgic, my earpieces were back in place, and like everyone else, I reentered my own lonely, digitized world.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1095)