Rina sat slumped on the cracked back steps of her childhood home, dust gathering at the hems of her skirt. Around her, the once-vivid garden her mother had loved drooped under the weight of a long drought. Tears she hadn’t meant to shed stained her cheeks, hot and insistent. She felt like the wilting roses: brittle, broken, waiting for rain that never came.
The store had failed. Years of hard work, of hoping, of building something she could be proud of—gone in a flood of debts and dashed plans. Friends who once congratulated her now avoided her gaze. Worse, she avoided her own reflection. She had prayed. She had believed. And yet she sat here, hollow, defeated.
A soft, unexpected sound pulled her from her sorrow. A flutter—then a chorus of chirping. She looked up and watched as a tiny sparrow, ragged and scrappy, hop-fluttered awkwardly onto the fence post. Its wing hung at an odd angle, injured. Rina winced. The little bird should have stayed hidden, she thought. It was too broken for open sky.
But then the bird spread its wings, wobbly but determined, and with a breathless tilt of its body, it pushed itself into the air. It didn’t soar with grace. It stumbled through the sky—a patchwork of frantic flaps and fierce will—but it flew.
Something inside Rina cracked open. Not with a loud noise, but like how ice shatters beneath the first warmth of spring. She closed her eyes and whispered what her father used to tell her when life seemed against her: "Sheva yipol tzaddik v’kam"—the righteous falls seven times and rises again (Proverbs 24:16).
She stiffened against another wave of shame but then... let it pass. Maybe falling wasn’t the failure. Maybe staying down was. Her heart, tender and bruised, still beat inside her. Wasn’t that proof enough that she could try again?
The sun dipped lower, painting the fields in a golden light, and a breeze, cool and kind, kissed her face. She stood slowly, brushing dust from her skirt. Her knees wobbled, unused to bearing hope again, but she didn’t sit back down.
Rina walked to the patchy garden and, on impulse, knelt by the barren rose bushes. Her mother had always said that plants, like people, didn’t ask if it was worth trying again—they just pushed upward toward life because it was in them to do so.
Her hands, calloused from years of labor, sank into the dry earth. She turned the soil gently, feeling its stubborn resilience in her palms. A small ladybug crawled across her wrist—a drop of red among the browns and grays—and she laughed, a sound rusty from disuse but sweet all the same.
That night, by the faint light of stars and memory, Rina made a plan. Not grand yet—just small steps. Maybe a garden stand with fresh fruit. Maybe tutoring children after school with the skills she had. Maybe simply daring to believe that today wasn’t her final page.
The ache inside her didn’t vanish. It nestled beside her hope, both real, both true, both part of her. She whispered a prayer, not for miracles but for strength enough to rise, strength enough to try.
As she drifted to sleep that night, Psalm 34:19 echoed like a lullaby in her heart: "Many are the afflictions of the righteous, but Hashem delivers him out of them all."
She wasn't flying freely yet. But she was flapping—awkward, stubborn, fiercely alive—and in that imperfect rising, she found herself closer to the beating, everlasting heart of G-d.
—
Supporting Verses:
Rina sat slumped on the cracked back steps of her childhood home, dust gathering at the hems of her skirt. Around her, the once-vivid garden her mother had loved drooped under the weight of a long drought. Tears she hadn’t meant to shed stained her cheeks, hot and insistent. She felt like the wilting roses: brittle, broken, waiting for rain that never came.
The store had failed. Years of hard work, of hoping, of building something she could be proud of—gone in a flood of debts and dashed plans. Friends who once congratulated her now avoided her gaze. Worse, she avoided her own reflection. She had prayed. She had believed. And yet she sat here, hollow, defeated.
A soft, unexpected sound pulled her from her sorrow. A flutter—then a chorus of chirping. She looked up and watched as a tiny sparrow, ragged and scrappy, hop-fluttered awkwardly onto the fence post. Its wing hung at an odd angle, injured. Rina winced. The little bird should have stayed hidden, she thought. It was too broken for open sky.
But then the bird spread its wings, wobbly but determined, and with a breathless tilt of its body, it pushed itself into the air. It didn’t soar with grace. It stumbled through the sky—a patchwork of frantic flaps and fierce will—but it flew.
Something inside Rina cracked open. Not with a loud noise, but like how ice shatters beneath the first warmth of spring. She closed her eyes and whispered what her father used to tell her when life seemed against her: "Sheva yipol tzaddik v’kam"—the righteous falls seven times and rises again (Proverbs 24:16).
She stiffened against another wave of shame but then... let it pass. Maybe falling wasn’t the failure. Maybe staying down was. Her heart, tender and bruised, still beat inside her. Wasn’t that proof enough that she could try again?
The sun dipped lower, painting the fields in a golden light, and a breeze, cool and kind, kissed her face. She stood slowly, brushing dust from her skirt. Her knees wobbled, unused to bearing hope again, but she didn’t sit back down.
Rina walked to the patchy garden and, on impulse, knelt by the barren rose bushes. Her mother had always said that plants, like people, didn’t ask if it was worth trying again—they just pushed upward toward life because it was in them to do so.
Her hands, calloused from years of labor, sank into the dry earth. She turned the soil gently, feeling its stubborn resilience in her palms. A small ladybug crawled across her wrist—a drop of red among the browns and grays—and she laughed, a sound rusty from disuse but sweet all the same.
That night, by the faint light of stars and memory, Rina made a plan. Not grand yet—just small steps. Maybe a garden stand with fresh fruit. Maybe tutoring children after school with the skills she had. Maybe simply daring to believe that today wasn’t her final page.
The ache inside her didn’t vanish. It nestled beside her hope, both real, both true, both part of her. She whispered a prayer, not for miracles but for strength enough to rise, strength enough to try.
As she drifted to sleep that night, Psalm 34:19 echoed like a lullaby in her heart: "Many are the afflictions of the righteous, but Hashem delivers him out of them all."
She wasn't flying freely yet. But she was flapping—awkward, stubborn, fiercely alive—and in that imperfect rising, she found herself closer to the beating, everlasting heart of G-d.
—
Supporting Verses:
