Leah watched the sky bruise purple at the edges, the first stars trembling into view. She sat barefoot on the cold stone front step, her dress still damp from washing clothes, the knuckles of her hands raw. Another day passed — another day with no word from Daniel.
Her husband’s army unit had been deployed for months without communication. Rumors of battles came like scraps on the wind. Friends murmured their prayers as they passed her in the market, but their eyes couldn’t meet hers. Leah felt the weight of their glances, the echo of their own fears — what if the worst had already happened?
She pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders as the desert evening crept in. It was easier to be busy during the day, when the sun was bright and there were tasks to fill her hands. But when night fell, it brought with it endless questions — and the heavy silence of G-d’s absence.
A pebble skittered against the ground, startling her. When she looked up, Miriam, her neighbor’s little girl, was standing halfway down the path. In her fist she clutched something tightly.
Leah summoned a tired smile. "What is it, motek?"
Miriam trotted forward and shyly held out a tiny, battered clay lamp. It rested, cracked but still whole, in the girl's open palm.
"I found it in the garden," Miriam whispered. "It’s small, but it still lights."
Leah stared at the lamp, her throat thick. She remembered learning as a child that even in the temple, even when the world was dark and dangerous, the kohanim made sure the menorah's light never went out. No matter how little oil, no matter how fierce the night.
She brushed her thumb over the cool clay. “Thank you, sweet girl.”
Miriam grinned and ran off without another word, her curls bouncing in the evening light.
Leah sat for a long while, the old lamp cradled in her lap. She thought of King David’s words — “Weeping may endure for a night, but joy comes in the morning.” She breathed in deeply, tasting the air — cool and sharp with the scent of olives and dust —and a memory rose up: Daniel, laughing as he raced her through these very fields, his voice a promise.
Hope isn’t loud, she realized. It's not the roar of victory; it's the stubborn flame that refuses to die when everything is howling for it to go out.
Looking up into the dark, scattered with stars, Leah began to pray — not the frantic begging she had offered weeks before, but something quieter now, truer.
G-d of Avraham, of Rivkah, of all who have wandered and waited... be my light.
She rose at last, cradling the lamp, and went inside. Before setting it upon the windowsill, she placed a wick inside the hollow and lit it. A single flicker of light bloomed out into the darkened room.
It was not much. But as Leah watched the small flame dance, she understood that she was not alone — not now, not ever. The same G-d who lit the stars across the endless skies walked with her still, even through the valleys of shadow.
Tomorrow might not bring answers. Tomorrow might still be hard. But for tonight, there was a light in her home. A light in her heart.
And it was enough.
—
Supporting Torah and Tanakh Verses:
Leah watched the sky bruise purple at the edges, the first stars trembling into view. She sat barefoot on the cold stone front step, her dress still damp from washing clothes, the knuckles of her hands raw. Another day passed — another day with no word from Daniel.
Her husband’s army unit had been deployed for months without communication. Rumors of battles came like scraps on the wind. Friends murmured their prayers as they passed her in the market, but their eyes couldn’t meet hers. Leah felt the weight of their glances, the echo of their own fears — what if the worst had already happened?
She pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders as the desert evening crept in. It was easier to be busy during the day, when the sun was bright and there were tasks to fill her hands. But when night fell, it brought with it endless questions — and the heavy silence of G-d’s absence.
A pebble skittered against the ground, startling her. When she looked up, Miriam, her neighbor’s little girl, was standing halfway down the path. In her fist she clutched something tightly.
Leah summoned a tired smile. "What is it, motek?"
Miriam trotted forward and shyly held out a tiny, battered clay lamp. It rested, cracked but still whole, in the girl's open palm.
"I found it in the garden," Miriam whispered. "It’s small, but it still lights."
Leah stared at the lamp, her throat thick. She remembered learning as a child that even in the temple, even when the world was dark and dangerous, the kohanim made sure the menorah's light never went out. No matter how little oil, no matter how fierce the night.
She brushed her thumb over the cool clay. “Thank you, sweet girl.”
Miriam grinned and ran off without another word, her curls bouncing in the evening light.
Leah sat for a long while, the old lamp cradled in her lap. She thought of King David’s words — “Weeping may endure for a night, but joy comes in the morning.” She breathed in deeply, tasting the air — cool and sharp with the scent of olives and dust —and a memory rose up: Daniel, laughing as he raced her through these very fields, his voice a promise.
Hope isn’t loud, she realized. It's not the roar of victory; it's the stubborn flame that refuses to die when everything is howling for it to go out.
Looking up into the dark, scattered with stars, Leah began to pray — not the frantic begging she had offered weeks before, but something quieter now, truer.
G-d of Avraham, of Rivkah, of all who have wandered and waited... be my light.
She rose at last, cradling the lamp, and went inside. Before setting it upon the windowsill, she placed a wick inside the hollow and lit it. A single flicker of light bloomed out into the darkened room.
It was not much. But as Leah watched the small flame dance, she understood that she was not alone — not now, not ever. The same G-d who lit the stars across the endless skies walked with her still, even through the valleys of shadow.
Tomorrow might not bring answers. Tomorrow might still be hard. But for tonight, there was a light in her home. A light in her heart.
And it was enough.
—
Supporting Torah and Tanakh Verses:
