The rain had not yet touched the dry fields, but Eliana could feel the heaviness in the air, pressing against her skin. She stood at the edge of the vineyard she had once shared with her best friend, Miriam—each vine a silent witness to promises made and broken. A year ago, Miriam had betrayed her, selling their shared land to strangers, leaving Eliana scrambling to reclaim what remained. The betrayal throbbed inside her, like a wound that refused to scab over.
The crust of bitterness beckoned, hissing in her ear that she had every right to let the anger root deep, to nurse it until it flowered into a thorny armor no one could breach. She almost welcomed it—it was easier than the ache of remembering, of trusting, of hoping.
She wrapped her arms around herself and began walking between the vineyards, boots kicking up dry dust. A sparrow darted in front of her path, wings fluttering frantically. At first she thought it was hurt, but then it rose, feathered and fierce, into the dusky sky. Something in her ached at the sight—an echo of freedom she couldn't yet claim.
“Eliana!” a small voice called.
Turning, she saw little Naama, her neighbor’s daughter, running toward her, curls bouncing. In her hands was a crumpled sprig of lavender.
“For you!” Naama said, out of breath, shoving it into Eliana’s hand. “Because Ima says you’re sad and Hashem loves you lots. Even when people are mean.”
Eliana stared at the child, blinking fast. How could so much truth fit in such tiny hands?
She knelt down, tears threatening. “Thank you, sweet one.”
Naama grinned and ran off before Eliana could say more, leaving her holding the small battered lavender against her chest.
She remained there, kneeling, the scent of crushed lavender filling her senses. She thought of Psalm 147:3—the verses she had stopped whispering to herself when anger had seemed a better friend: "He heals the broken-hearted and binds up their wounds." She hadn’t let Him bind anything. She had been clutching the wound too tightly, as if it defined her.
Wind stirred the vines, the first scent of possible rain on it. Eliana let herself breathe in, long and deep. She closed her eyes and, for the first time in months, whispered aloud, “Ribbono Shel Olam, I don’t want to be bitter anymore. Heal what I can’t fix.”
The words slipped out in ragged pieces, but they were real, and they were enough.
When she opened her eyes, the vineyard seemed different. Not mended, not perfect—but alive. Even the damaged vines twisted toward the sky, reaching for the rain yet to come.
She stood, brushing off her knees, and tucked the lavender sprig into her hair. Maybe healing wasn’t instant. Maybe it grew little by little, like vines after a frost, patient and stubborn.
As she walked back toward home, the first drops of rain kissed her cheeks. She lifted her face to the sky, letting them fall. The warmth of her tears mixed with the coolness of the rain, and for the first time, the sharpness of betrayal softened into something simpler: surrender.
Eliana would tend her own ground. She would leave the bitterness to wither. New things would grow.
—
Supporting Verses:
The rain had not yet touched the dry fields, but Eliana could feel the heaviness in the air, pressing against her skin. She stood at the edge of the vineyard she had once shared with her best friend, Miriam—each vine a silent witness to promises made and broken. A year ago, Miriam had betrayed her, selling their shared land to strangers, leaving Eliana scrambling to reclaim what remained. The betrayal throbbed inside her, like a wound that refused to scab over.
The crust of bitterness beckoned, hissing in her ear that she had every right to let the anger root deep, to nurse it until it flowered into a thorny armor no one could breach. She almost welcomed it—it was easier than the ache of remembering, of trusting, of hoping.
She wrapped her arms around herself and began walking between the vineyards, boots kicking up dry dust. A sparrow darted in front of her path, wings fluttering frantically. At first she thought it was hurt, but then it rose, feathered and fierce, into the dusky sky. Something in her ached at the sight—an echo of freedom she couldn't yet claim.
“Eliana!” a small voice called.
Turning, she saw little Naama, her neighbor’s daughter, running toward her, curls bouncing. In her hands was a crumpled sprig of lavender.
“For you!” Naama said, out of breath, shoving it into Eliana’s hand. “Because Ima says you’re sad and Hashem loves you lots. Even when people are mean.”
Eliana stared at the child, blinking fast. How could so much truth fit in such tiny hands?
She knelt down, tears threatening. “Thank you, sweet one.”
Naama grinned and ran off before Eliana could say more, leaving her holding the small battered lavender against her chest.
She remained there, kneeling, the scent of crushed lavender filling her senses. She thought of Psalm 147:3—the verses she had stopped whispering to herself when anger had seemed a better friend: "He heals the broken-hearted and binds up their wounds." She hadn’t let Him bind anything. She had been clutching the wound too tightly, as if it defined her.
Wind stirred the vines, the first scent of possible rain on it. Eliana let herself breathe in, long and deep. She closed her eyes and, for the first time in months, whispered aloud, “Ribbono Shel Olam, I don’t want to be bitter anymore. Heal what I can’t fix.”
The words slipped out in ragged pieces, but they were real, and they were enough.
When she opened her eyes, the vineyard seemed different. Not mended, not perfect—but alive. Even the damaged vines twisted toward the sky, reaching for the rain yet to come.
She stood, brushing off her knees, and tucked the lavender sprig into her hair. Maybe healing wasn’t instant. Maybe it grew little by little, like vines after a frost, patient and stubborn.
As she walked back toward home, the first drops of rain kissed her cheeks. She lifted her face to the sky, letting them fall. The warmth of her tears mixed with the coolness of the rain, and for the first time, the sharpness of betrayal softened into something simpler: surrender.
Eliana would tend her own ground. She would leave the bitterness to wither. New things would grow.
—
Supporting Verses:
