The old oak creaked softly in the evening wind, and Miriam tucked her knees up to her chest, sitting beneath its heavy branches as dusk spilled purple across the fields. Her hands, tangled in her long skirt, trembled without warning — not from the cooling air, but from the old memories that clung tighter on the quiet nights.
She hated how the past could find her even here, in the wide openness, where she should have been free. It was as if the broken shards of what once was had hidden themselves under her skin, finding ways to whisper: You are still that same girl. Still less. Still wounded.
Miriam shifted, chewing the inside of her cheek. She had spent years building walls around the tender places no one could see. She laughed too loudly, worked too hard, stayed too far from anyone who might get close enough to hurt her again.
She hadn't noticed how heavy it had all become — until now.
A soft cry interrupted her spinning thoughts. Miriam looked up. Across the field, by the low stone wall, a lamb had caught its foot between two rocks. Flimsy, small, it flailed harder, crying out. The others in the flock moved on, busy grazing or stubbornly tugging at patches of wild oats.
Something cracked in Miriam’s chest. She rose before thinking, gathering her skirt to hurry across the scrub-brushed field. When she reached the lamb, it thrashed away from her touch at first, bleating louder. Still, she crooned softly — nonsense sounds, old songs from childhood she hadn't sung in years — until the creature stilled just enough. Gently, she worked its bruised leg free.
Up close, she could see the rawness where the rocks had scraped the lamb’s skin. She tore a strip from the hem of her skirt and wound it around the wound, whispering steady little prayers: Ribono shel Olam, let this little one heal. Let me help.
The lamb nestled against her damp blouse as she carried it back across the field, as if trusting her completely.
And somehow, cradling that trembling life, something inside Miriam quieted too.
There, beneath the rising stars, she realized: she hadn’t been abandoned all those years ago. She had been like this lamb — caught, wounded, bleeding — but Someone had bent low to lift her, had whispered songs she had long forgotten how to hear. Every moment she had survived, every breath she had taken since, had been a quiet rescue.
She sat again under the oak, the lamb curled in her arms. Everything smelled like earth and rain and wool. Miriam tipped her head back to the heavens, her throat tight.
“I am not the same girl,” she whispered. The words trembled out of her, raw but sure. “I am Yours.”
In the distance, the fields shimmered silver with dew, as if they too whispered back: Newness. Healing. A beginning.
Not immediately, Miriam knew. Healing would be slow, like mending a torn garment or training a wild vine to grow straight. There would be days that still hurt.
But for now, she knew she was not forsaken. She never was.
The oak swayed in the tender night breeze, and Miriam leaned against its trunk, letting herself rest. The lamb sighed in her arms, already fast asleep.
---
Supporting Torah and Tanakh Verses:
The old oak creaked softly in the evening wind, and Miriam tucked her knees up to her chest, sitting beneath its heavy branches as dusk spilled purple across the fields. Her hands, tangled in her long skirt, trembled without warning — not from the cooling air, but from the old memories that clung tighter on the quiet nights.
She hated how the past could find her even here, in the wide openness, where she should have been free. It was as if the broken shards of what once was had hidden themselves under her skin, finding ways to whisper: You are still that same girl. Still less. Still wounded.
Miriam shifted, chewing the inside of her cheek. She had spent years building walls around the tender places no one could see. She laughed too loudly, worked too hard, stayed too far from anyone who might get close enough to hurt her again.
She hadn't noticed how heavy it had all become — until now.
A soft cry interrupted her spinning thoughts. Miriam looked up. Across the field, by the low stone wall, a lamb had caught its foot between two rocks. Flimsy, small, it flailed harder, crying out. The others in the flock moved on, busy grazing or stubbornly tugging at patches of wild oats.
Something cracked in Miriam’s chest. She rose before thinking, gathering her skirt to hurry across the scrub-brushed field. When she reached the lamb, it thrashed away from her touch at first, bleating louder. Still, she crooned softly — nonsense sounds, old songs from childhood she hadn't sung in years — until the creature stilled just enough. Gently, she worked its bruised leg free.
Up close, she could see the rawness where the rocks had scraped the lamb’s skin. She tore a strip from the hem of her skirt and wound it around the wound, whispering steady little prayers: Ribono shel Olam, let this little one heal. Let me help.
The lamb nestled against her damp blouse as she carried it back across the field, as if trusting her completely.
And somehow, cradling that trembling life, something inside Miriam quieted too.
There, beneath the rising stars, she realized: she hadn’t been abandoned all those years ago. She had been like this lamb — caught, wounded, bleeding — but Someone had bent low to lift her, had whispered songs she had long forgotten how to hear. Every moment she had survived, every breath she had taken since, had been a quiet rescue.
She sat again under the oak, the lamb curled in her arms. Everything smelled like earth and rain and wool. Miriam tipped her head back to the heavens, her throat tight.
“I am not the same girl,” she whispered. The words trembled out of her, raw but sure. “I am Yours.”
In the distance, the fields shimmered silver with dew, as if they too whispered back: Newness. Healing. A beginning.
Not immediately, Miriam knew. Healing would be slow, like mending a torn garment or training a wild vine to grow straight. There would be days that still hurt.
But for now, she knew she was not forsaken. She never was.
The oak swayed in the tender night breeze, and Miriam leaned against its trunk, letting herself rest. The lamb sighed in her arms, already fast asleep.
---
Supporting Torah and Tanakh Verses:
