It began with the email Yasmin wasn’t ready for.
She sat frozen at her kitchen table, a cold cup of black tea untouched before her. The gallery—the one place that had believed in her work, that had displayed her paintings when no one else would—was closing indefinitely. Funding issues. Hollow apologies. She read the message three times, but the words didn’t change: she was losing the only bridge she had built toward her dream.
The walls of the small apartment seemed to close in. Outside, rain tapped against the windows with a steady, lonely rhythm. If she had been stronger, smarter… somehow better, maybe things would be different. She buried her face in her hands. "I have nothing left," she whispered to no one.
Hours later, the rain still hadn’t let up. Yasmin pulled on her boots and coat, feeling heavy and sluggish, and stepped outside. The streets glistened under the dull-gray sky, puddles gathering between the worn stones. Her feet led her nowhere in particular, past shuttered shops and soaked wooden benches.
At the corner by the old park, she paused. A vine of morning glories had crept up the iron fence, their delicate blue and purple blooms open wide in defiance of the storm. She reached out, touching one flower lightly with trembling fingers. It was so small, so fragile—and yet it bloomed. It had no certainty of tomorrow’s sun, no shelter from the rain. Still, it reached upward.
She felt a stirring inside, faint but real.
Still staring at the flower, Yasmin heard words surface softly in her mind. Words she had learned as a child but hadn't thought of in years: "He gives strength to the weary, and to him who has no might He increases strength."
Tears blurred her vision, and she sank onto the bench, the wet seeping through her jeans. She didn't fight it. She just sat there, weeping openly in the rain, offering her brokenness to the One who shaped the stars and cared for the tiniest vine.
It was strange—after the tears came a warmth, thin and wavering but unmistakable. No one ran to fix her life. No miracle swept down from the heavens. But something shifted inside her heart: a knowledge that she wasn’t truly alone, and that strength didn’t have to come from what she could see or prove. It could bloom from faith, fed by a G-d who saw her even now.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket. Without much thought, she answered.
"Hey, Yas?" It was Mikha, a friend from art school, his voice tentative. "Look, I know it’s sudden, but there’s this co-op space opening soon. They’re looking for local artists to fill spots...and, well, your name came to mind."
Yasmin laughed, the sound bubbling up like a spring after a long drought. "Really?" she rasped.
"Really," he said. "You okay?"
She looked up and let the rain wash over her upturned face, breathing in the scent of wet earth and something new beginning. She wasn't fixed, she wasn't finished, but she wasn't powerless either. Bit by bit, she would bloom again.
"I'm getting there," Yasmin answered, and when she stood, her steps felt lighter, her soul steadier. Every raindrop gleamed like a tiny jewel around her, and a small, stubborn hope unfurled inside her chest.
She whispered as she walked, a prayer swallowed by the rain: "G-d is my strength and my shield; my heart trusts in Him, and I am helped."
And somehow, for the first time in a long time, she believed it.
—
Torah and Tanakh Verses:
It began with the email Yasmin wasn’t ready for.
She sat frozen at her kitchen table, a cold cup of black tea untouched before her. The gallery—the one place that had believed in her work, that had displayed her paintings when no one else would—was closing indefinitely. Funding issues. Hollow apologies. She read the message three times, but the words didn’t change: she was losing the only bridge she had built toward her dream.
The walls of the small apartment seemed to close in. Outside, rain tapped against the windows with a steady, lonely rhythm. If she had been stronger, smarter… somehow better, maybe things would be different. She buried her face in her hands. "I have nothing left," she whispered to no one.
Hours later, the rain still hadn’t let up. Yasmin pulled on her boots and coat, feeling heavy and sluggish, and stepped outside. The streets glistened under the dull-gray sky, puddles gathering between the worn stones. Her feet led her nowhere in particular, past shuttered shops and soaked wooden benches.
At the corner by the old park, she paused. A vine of morning glories had crept up the iron fence, their delicate blue and purple blooms open wide in defiance of the storm. She reached out, touching one flower lightly with trembling fingers. It was so small, so fragile—and yet it bloomed. It had no certainty of tomorrow’s sun, no shelter from the rain. Still, it reached upward.
She felt a stirring inside, faint but real.
Still staring at the flower, Yasmin heard words surface softly in her mind. Words she had learned as a child but hadn't thought of in years: "He gives strength to the weary, and to him who has no might He increases strength."
Tears blurred her vision, and she sank onto the bench, the wet seeping through her jeans. She didn't fight it. She just sat there, weeping openly in the rain, offering her brokenness to the One who shaped the stars and cared for the tiniest vine.
It was strange—after the tears came a warmth, thin and wavering but unmistakable. No one ran to fix her life. No miracle swept down from the heavens. But something shifted inside her heart: a knowledge that she wasn’t truly alone, and that strength didn’t have to come from what she could see or prove. It could bloom from faith, fed by a G-d who saw her even now.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket. Without much thought, she answered.
"Hey, Yas?" It was Mikha, a friend from art school, his voice tentative. "Look, I know it’s sudden, but there’s this co-op space opening soon. They’re looking for local artists to fill spots...and, well, your name came to mind."
Yasmin laughed, the sound bubbling up like a spring after a long drought. "Really?" she rasped.
"Really," he said. "You okay?"
She looked up and let the rain wash over her upturned face, breathing in the scent of wet earth and something new beginning. She wasn't fixed, she wasn't finished, but she wasn't powerless either. Bit by bit, she would bloom again.
"I'm getting there," Yasmin answered, and when she stood, her steps felt lighter, her soul steadier. Every raindrop gleamed like a tiny jewel around her, and a small, stubborn hope unfurled inside her chest.
She whispered as she walked, a prayer swallowed by the rain: "G-d is my strength and my shield; my heart trusts in Him, and I am helped."
And somehow, for the first time in a long time, she believed it.
—
Torah and Tanakh Verses:
