Rosh Hashanah last year found me at home with my children, as I’ve been every holiday for quite some time. I feel that at home I can pray just as well, without being distracted by people talking or by thoughts of how my clothing looks, and without wondering how my children are behaving. Yet no decision is perfect, and lately I think of the years from my childhood until my marriage, sitting in shul, awed by the atmosphere, my mother with a stern look forbidding me to wander with my friends before I was done praying. I can pray at home now precisely because I retain the image of the shul, internalized after all those years. It’s as if I’m there; I can see the crowds and hear the melodies.

The one thing I truly miss is the shofar, whose impression cannot be duplicated. I heard it, unexpectedly, for the first time in years, at my uncle’s funeral eighteen months ago, and was totally shaken, trembling, moved to repentance and tears by its piercing, heartrending cry. And so last Rosh Hashanah I was plagued by doubts. Was I wrong in opting to stay home? Was I separating myself from the community? Of course it would be difficult to take the very small children to shul — even for a little while, and even to the one on the corner. But so what? We had just moved to this neighborhood to have the convenience of a nearby shul, and I should be taking advantage of it.

Yet I couldn’t motivate or organize myself enough. I didn’t know what time they’d blow the shofar, and I’d have to carry the baby the whole time. My doubts, along with tending to the children, effectively annihilated my good intentions and barely left me with the energy for my usual home praying.

But suddenly, while sitting on my daughter’s bed, looking out the window, I heard it — the shofar. From which shul it was sounding I couldn’t tell. All I knew was that it spoke to me, pleaded with me, lifted me up and yet cast me down, the voice of Hashem or was it the voice of my own soul, crying and yearning, whispering and imploring. I sat frozen, wondering if I were hearing things; yet it sounded again and again, bringing back for me my childhood memory of standing next to my mother in awe with everyone else.

When it finally finished, I sat for a while longer. When I got up, still entranced, to resume what I was doing in the house, I felt my actions take on new meaning. And I realized the truth of what I learned in school: we can do teshuvah anytime, but during this time of year, Hashem is much closer to us. True, I should have made it my business to go to shul, but I was in a rut I hadn’t managed to escape. And so Hashem had brought the sound of the shofar to me.

Now from time to time, I hear that shofar wail in my mind, telling me: Hashem is with you always. At unexpected moments the experience comes back to me, infusing my day with special meaning and strengthening another concept I learned: that small acts of holiness can have an incredible impact. If I’m still feeling the ripple effects of hearing the shofar sounding down the block, I can’t imagine what will happen when I actually hear it in shul (perhaps Hashem wanted me to realize what I’ve been missing). And this has made me aware of the significance of every other mitzvah. When I take an extra second to hold the netilat yadayim cup properly, I feel a difference in my day — and, perhaps more important, the mitzvah is easier to do the next time. I can now feel Hashem with me even when I’m just feeding the baby or making the beds. And if not, I can only blame myself for not listening hard enough.

Because if we can just hear Hashem’s voice, we can build His sanctuary in each of our hearts. And once that happens, it won’t be long until we see the Third Temple and hear the shofar of Mashiach.

Freida Betyakov is a pseudonym. The writer lives in Brooklyn.