The weight of the rejection letter felt heavier than the paper itself. Talia sat slumped at her kitchen table, the dim winter light pooling around her like a shroud. The grant she'd spent six months applying for — the one everyone said she was "perfect" for — had gone to someone else. Again.
Behind her, the teakettle screamed, but Talia didn’t move. A tiny voice in her heart whispered, Failure, and she believed it.
She thumbed the edge of the letter, letting its cold finality seep into her palms. Maybe they’re right, she thought. Maybe I’m just never going to be enough.
Her phone buzzed on the counter. She didn't need to look — she knew the messages would be full of family members meaning well, or friends suggesting she "think positively." She braced for the loneliness that always followed these moments, the feeling of shouting into a sky so vast it swallowed her voice.
Still, out of habit more than hope, she reached for her coat and stepped outside.
The cold bit at her cheeks, coiling around her like an old adversary. She moved blindly, her boots imprinting shallow dents in the pale dusting of snow. As she wandered, she found herself at the old path leading toward the orchard — the place her father used to take her when she'd been a little girl.
She almost turned back. What's the point? But something tugged at her. A stubborn pull. She followed it.
The orchard, skeletal and still, greeted her with bony branches stretched toward the washed-out sky. The world sat holding its breath, waiting for spring, for something unseen yet unquestioningly certain. Looking at the gnarled trees, barren and unapologetic, something stirred in Talia — a memory.
Her father’s voice, low and warm: "Even now, they’re alive under the surface, Talilach. The roots don’t panic in winter. They just trust."
Talia pressed a hand to her chest. She remembered how he would quote Psalm 139, whispering it over her like a blessing: "For You have created my mind; You have covered me in my mother’s womb. I shall thank You, for in an awesome, wondrous way I am made..."
Her vision blurred. Was I wondrous, even now, even in my disappointment?
The question drifted up like a prayer.
A sudden movement caught her eye. From a scraggly branch, a tiny winter sparrow launched itself into the air, its chest impossibly proud against the gray sky. Fragile. Ordinary. Glorious.
Something inside her cracked open, the way ice fractures at the first real thaw.
Maybe — just maybe — her worth wasn’t tied to outcomes, to titles, to human validation. Maybe it was in the simple, stubborn fact that G-d Himself had formed her, loved her, named her. As Isaiah had promised: "I have redeemed you; I have called you by name; you are Mine."
The wind shifted, carrying the faint, sweet scent of earth hidden beneath snow. Life, unseen but waiting. Hope, invisible but real.
Talia let out a shuddering breath that tasted almost like laughter. She wasn't alone. She had never been.
G-d had composed her, weaving her fibers with intention. A human poem, sculpted from dust and breath and infinite love. Whether or not the world noticed or applauded — she was enough. She was chosen.
And though she was still aching, still unfinished, she walked back toward her house with a quiet steadiness, carrying the certainty that the Creator of the universe had called her very good.
Not because of what she did. But because of whose she was.
In the hush of the orchard's winter slumber, Talia found her footing again. Not in success or recognition — but in being beloved.
Under the gray sky, her heart whispered back to G-d: Hineni. I am here.
—
Supporting Torah and Tanakh Verses:
The weight of the rejection letter felt heavier than the paper itself. Talia sat slumped at her kitchen table, the dim winter light pooling around her like a shroud. The grant she'd spent six months applying for — the one everyone said she was "perfect" for — had gone to someone else. Again.
Behind her, the teakettle screamed, but Talia didn’t move. A tiny voice in her heart whispered, Failure, and she believed it.
She thumbed the edge of the letter, letting its cold finality seep into her palms. Maybe they’re right, she thought. Maybe I’m just never going to be enough.
Her phone buzzed on the counter. She didn't need to look — she knew the messages would be full of family members meaning well, or friends suggesting she "think positively." She braced for the loneliness that always followed these moments, the feeling of shouting into a sky so vast it swallowed her voice.
Still, out of habit more than hope, she reached for her coat and stepped outside.
The cold bit at her cheeks, coiling around her like an old adversary. She moved blindly, her boots imprinting shallow dents in the pale dusting of snow. As she wandered, she found herself at the old path leading toward the orchard — the place her father used to take her when she'd been a little girl.
She almost turned back. What's the point? But something tugged at her. A stubborn pull. She followed it.
The orchard, skeletal and still, greeted her with bony branches stretched toward the washed-out sky. The world sat holding its breath, waiting for spring, for something unseen yet unquestioningly certain. Looking at the gnarled trees, barren and unapologetic, something stirred in Talia — a memory.
Her father’s voice, low and warm: "Even now, they’re alive under the surface, Talilach. The roots don’t panic in winter. They just trust."
Talia pressed a hand to her chest. She remembered how he would quote Psalm 139, whispering it over her like a blessing: "For You have created my mind; You have covered me in my mother’s womb. I shall thank You, for in an awesome, wondrous way I am made..."
Her vision blurred. Was I wondrous, even now, even in my disappointment?
The question drifted up like a prayer.
A sudden movement caught her eye. From a scraggly branch, a tiny winter sparrow launched itself into the air, its chest impossibly proud against the gray sky. Fragile. Ordinary. Glorious.
Something inside her cracked open, the way ice fractures at the first real thaw.
Maybe — just maybe — her worth wasn’t tied to outcomes, to titles, to human validation. Maybe it was in the simple, stubborn fact that G-d Himself had formed her, loved her, named her. As Isaiah had promised: "I have redeemed you; I have called you by name; you are Mine."
The wind shifted, carrying the faint, sweet scent of earth hidden beneath snow. Life, unseen but waiting. Hope, invisible but real.
Talia let out a shuddering breath that tasted almost like laughter. She wasn't alone. She had never been.
G-d had composed her, weaving her fibers with intention. A human poem, sculpted from dust and breath and infinite love. Whether or not the world noticed or applauded — she was enough. She was chosen.
And though she was still aching, still unfinished, she walked back toward her house with a quiet steadiness, carrying the certainty that the Creator of the universe had called her very good.
Not because of what she did. But because of whose she was.
In the hush of the orchard's winter slumber, Talia found her footing again. Not in success or recognition — but in being beloved.
Under the gray sky, her heart whispered back to G-d: Hineni. I am here.
—
Supporting Torah and Tanakh Verses:
