Rain peppered Rivka’s coat as she clutched it tighter around her, standing under a crooked fig tree. The sky wept unapologetically, matching the twist of turmoil in her chest. She squeezed her eyes shut. “I believe... help my unbelief,” she whispered hoarsely into the storm, as if the words alone could steady her cracking heart.
It had been six months since Yonatan left. Six months since the diagnosis that had jerked her foundations loose, since the news that even the doctors, in their clipped, emotionless Hebrew, could not gild with hope. She prayed. She pleaded. And still each scan showed more darkness. Guilt gnawed at her: maybe her prayers were faulty, fragmented like her faith.
She kicked a stone, sending it skittering across the muddy path. Somewhere nearby, a bird chirped insistently through the rain, stubborn against the storm. Rivka shook her head bitterly—why should faith come so easily to a bird when hers crumbled with every heartbeat?
She walked, shoulders hunched, along the winding trail that skirted her village. The valley below lay shrouded in mist, and beyond it, the hills of Yehudah rose pale and mysterious. In the thick grayness, her doubts screamed louder: What if G-d wasn’t listening? What if His promises were for others, not her?
A small sound tugged her gaze downward. Beside her boot, almost invisible in the mud, a cluster of wild cyclamen pushed through the cold earth. Their delicate pink faces trembled against the wind. Rivka crouched automatically, aching knees forgotten. How had they survived the frost last week? How had they dared to bloom in such a world?
A memory surfaced unbidden: her grandfather’s voice, raspy but certain, teaching her from Tehillim all those years ago: “He shall not fear evil tidings; his heart is steadfast, trusting in Hashem.”
Rivka let out a shuddering breath, her fingers brushing the trembling flowers. Their roots had clung to the rock, unseen beneath the surface, drawing life from places the eye dismissed as barren. Maybe faith wasn’t certainty. Maybe it was choosing to reach, even when everything screamed against it.
She stayed there for a long while, letting the rain trace rivulets down her cheeks, indistinguishable from tears. And there, kneeling in the muddy path, Rivka whispered the words again—this time not from desperation, but from the quiet, stubborn place inside her that refused to die.
“I believe. Help my unbelief.”
And in the whisper of the cold wind, in the boldness of the tiny cyclamen, the Presence felt closer. Not a sudden answer, not a grand fixing, but
Rain peppered Rivka’s coat as she clutched it tighter around her, standing under a crooked fig tree. The sky wept unapologetically, matching the twist of turmoil in her chest. She squeezed her eyes shut. “I believe... help my unbelief,” she whispered hoarsely into the storm, as if the words alone could steady her cracking heart.
It had been six months since Yonatan left. Six months since the diagnosis that had jerked her foundations loose, since the news that even the doctors, in their clipped, emotionless Hebrew, could not gild with hope. She prayed. She pleaded. And still each scan showed more darkness. Guilt gnawed at her: maybe her prayers were faulty, fragmented like her faith.
She kicked a stone, sending it skittering across the muddy path. Somewhere nearby, a bird chirped insistently through the rain, stubborn against the storm. Rivka shook her head bitterly—why should faith come so easily to a bird when hers crumbled with every heartbeat?
She walked, shoulders hunched, along the winding trail that skirted her village. The valley below lay shrouded in mist, and beyond it, the hills of Yehudah rose pale and mysterious. In the thick grayness, her doubts screamed louder: What if G-d wasn’t listening? What if His promises were for others, not her?
A small sound tugged her gaze downward. Beside her boot, almost invisible in the mud, a cluster of wild cyclamen pushed through the cold earth. Their delicate pink faces trembled against the wind. Rivka crouched automatically, aching knees forgotten. How had they survived the frost last week? How had they dared to bloom in such a world?
A memory surfaced unbidden: her grandfather’s voice, raspy but certain, teaching her from Tehillim all those years ago: “He shall not fear evil tidings; his heart is steadfast, trusting in Hashem.”
Rivka let out a shuddering breath, her fingers brushing the trembling flowers. Their roots had clung to the rock, unseen beneath the surface, drawing life from places the eye dismissed as barren. Maybe faith wasn’t certainty. Maybe it was choosing to reach, even when everything screamed against it.
She stayed there for a long while, letting the rain trace rivulets down her cheeks, indistinguishable from tears. And there, kneeling in the muddy path, Rivka whispered the words again—this time not from desperation, but from the quiet, stubborn place inside her that refused to die.
“I believe. Help my unbelief.”
And in the whisper of the cold wind, in the boldness of the tiny cyclamen, the Presence felt closer. Not a sudden answer, not a grand fixing, but
