The rain had long since stopped, but Rivka stayed by the window, forehead pressed to the cool glass. Outside, the fields rippled under the whisper of a late summer wind, golden and endless. She had prayed so hard it ached — for a child, for the strength to keep hoping, for just a whisper from Hashem to let her know He was listening.
But the silence had been absolute.
Behind her, the house was filled with the low hum of life: the ticking clock, the scraping spoon of her husband stirring tea he wouldn’t drink. Eli hadn’t said much; neither of them had. Words felt too heavy, clumsy things that might break whatever little strength they still held.
She shut her eyes tight against the prickle of tears. How many nights had she cried out, clutching the worn leather of her siddur, begging? She felt almost foolish now, as if calling again into the vast, unanswering heavens would only draw more heartache.
"Hashem," she whispered once, so faintly the breath of the sound fogged the glass. "Are You even there?"
No voice answered — not outside, not inwardly. Only the fields, rustling in the dusk.
She let her forehead rest there, too tired for more.
It was a child's giggle that broke her stillness.
Rivka turned, confused. There, out by the fence, she spotted a little girl from the neighboring farm — Miriam, rosy-cheeked and lively — trying to bunch an armful of wildflowers together, the blooms slipping free with every triumphant laugh. No one else was in sight. It was just Miriam, barefoot and bright, fiercely determined to gather every last flower.
A smile, unexpected and trembling, touched Rivka’s mouth.
The simple beauty of it — wildflowers growing stubbornly out of dry ground, a child's laughter rising into quiet — filled her chest in a way no words had for months. She stepped outside without quite thinking, letting the air, the earth, the sky wrap around her aching heart.
Miriam spotted her and came running, holding out the pitiful, messy bouquet with pride. "For you!"
Rivka knelt, stunned by the offering. The flowers were scraggly, bent, some already losing petals. Yet together, gathered by small, earnest hands, they were breathtaking.
“He knew you needed some flowers," Miriam said simply, all innocence.
Tears blurred Rivka's vision, warm against the cool evening air. She pressed the flowers to her heart, unable to find the right reply. Somehow, in that moment — in the child's laugh, in the trembling stems, in the unfurling hush of the fields — she felt it.
She was not unseen.
Not unheard.
The silence hadn’t been emptiness at all. It was G-d's way of holding spaces open for wonder she hadn't yet noticed, for the quiet weaving of unseen answers, for wildflowers that still dared to bloom.
Shaking, smiling, weeping all at once, she whispered, “Thank You, Hashem,” into the twilight.
The words didn’t echo; they didn’t need to. They simply floated upward, carried on the breath of the evening, sure they would be received.
Inside, Eli was waiting, two steaming teacups side by side. Without speaking, he offered her one. She took it, wrapping both hands around the warmth, her heart settling into a peace she thought she had forgotten how to feel.
Maybe answers didn’t always come through thunder or lightning or even words.
Maybe they came through wildflowers.
Through children.
Through the stubborn, holy insistence of life to keep blooming, even when the sky seemed empty.
Rivka smiled again, small and certain.
She wasn’t alone. She never had been.
—
Torah and Tanakh Verses Supporting the Story’s Themes:
The rain had long since stopped, but Rivka stayed by the window, forehead pressed to the cool glass. Outside, the fields rippled under the whisper of a late summer wind, golden and endless. She had prayed so hard it ached — for a child, for the strength to keep hoping, for just a whisper from Hashem to let her know He was listening.
But the silence had been absolute.
Behind her, the house was filled with the low hum of life: the ticking clock, the scraping spoon of her husband stirring tea he wouldn’t drink. Eli hadn’t said much; neither of them had. Words felt too heavy, clumsy things that might break whatever little strength they still held.
She shut her eyes tight against the prickle of tears. How many nights had she cried out, clutching the worn leather of her siddur, begging? She felt almost foolish now, as if calling again into the vast, unanswering heavens would only draw more heartache.
"Hashem," she whispered once, so faintly the breath of the sound fogged the glass. "Are You even there?"
No voice answered — not outside, not inwardly. Only the fields, rustling in the dusk.
She let her forehead rest there, too tired for more.
It was a child's giggle that broke her stillness.
Rivka turned, confused. There, out by the fence, she spotted a little girl from the neighboring farm — Miriam, rosy-cheeked and lively — trying to bunch an armful of wildflowers together, the blooms slipping free with every triumphant laugh. No one else was in sight. It was just Miriam, barefoot and bright, fiercely determined to gather every last flower.
A smile, unexpected and trembling, touched Rivka’s mouth.
The simple beauty of it — wildflowers growing stubbornly out of dry ground, a child's laughter rising into quiet — filled her chest in a way no words had for months. She stepped outside without quite thinking, letting the air, the earth, the sky wrap around her aching heart.
Miriam spotted her and came running, holding out the pitiful, messy bouquet with pride. "For you!"
Rivka knelt, stunned by the offering. The flowers were scraggly, bent, some already losing petals. Yet together, gathered by small, earnest hands, they were breathtaking.
“He knew you needed some flowers," Miriam said simply, all innocence.
Tears blurred Rivka's vision, warm against the cool evening air. She pressed the flowers to her heart, unable to find the right reply. Somehow, in that moment — in the child's laugh, in the trembling stems, in the unfurling hush of the fields — she felt it.
She was not unseen.
Not unheard.
The silence hadn’t been emptiness at all. It was G-d's way of holding spaces open for wonder she hadn't yet noticed, for the quiet weaving of unseen answers, for wildflowers that still dared to bloom.
Shaking, smiling, weeping all at once, she whispered, “Thank You, Hashem,” into the twilight.
The words didn’t echo; they didn’t need to. They simply floated upward, carried on the breath of the evening, sure they would be received.
Inside, Eli was waiting, two steaming teacups side by side. Without speaking, he offered her one. She took it, wrapping both hands around the warmth, her heart settling into a peace she thought she had forgotten how to feel.
Maybe answers didn’t always come through thunder or lightning or even words.
Maybe they came through wildflowers.
Through children.
Through the stubborn, holy insistence of life to keep blooming, even when the sky seemed empty.
Rivka smiled again, small and certain.
She wasn’t alone. She never had been.
—
Torah and Tanakh Verses Supporting the Story’s Themes:
