Shira clutched the hem of her shawl tighter around her shoulders as she stared out over the dusty fields that were no longer hers. The bitterness swelled in her chest until it choked her. A cousin had manipulated the court, spinning lies smoother than silk, and with a few cold signatures, she had lost everything her father had built. It wasn’t fair. She had done everything right — prayed, followed the mitzvot, loved her family, worked the land with her own hands — and still, nothing had shielded her from betrayal.
The sun slid lower, gold lacing the edges of the clouds. Shadows stretched long and thin across the cracked earth. Shira pressed her forehead against the ancient wooden fence, her tears soaking into it. "Why, HaShem?" she whispered. "Where are You in all of this?"
In the heavy silence, a breeze stirred, carrying the scent of wild mint growing stubbornly at the foot of the fence. Something tightened painfully in her chest — a longing for the days when her father’s laughter filled the fields and she believed, bone-deep, that G-d’s goodness was as real as the beating of her heart.
She turned away, ready to drown herself in the small, sad rented house she now lived in. But a small sound tugged at her — laughter, high and bubbling. Across the road, a cluster of children ran, chasing a tattered ribbon caught on the wind. It was nothing — a game, a scrap — but as Shira watched, something shifted.
One little girl, the smallest of them, stumbled to the dusty ground. Shira caught herself flinching, waiting for the others to leave her behind. But instead, the oldest boy reached down, not with impatience but with gentleness — like it was the most natural thing in the world — and lifted her to her feet. The girl’s face bloomed into a smile so radiant, it seemed to spill over into the evening air.
Something in Shira's heart cracked open. A memory drifted up — her father’s voice, rough and tender: “HaMakom, the One who is everywhere, will not abandon you. Even when you cannot see the good, it is growing, like seeds underground.” His arms had always been so sure around her as he said it, grounding her, reminding her that life was more than what eyes could see.
Shira sank onto a low stone near the fence. For a long time, she sat there, breathing, the sorrow not vanished but shifting, loosening its grip. Perhaps life was unfair. Perhaps people lied and schemed and sometimes terrible things happened. But maybe — maybe underneath that, unseen — G-d was planting something she couldn't yet fathom.
A soft peace, fragile but real, brushed her soul.
And for the first time in weeks, Shira whispered not a question but a prayer: "Help me see, HaShem. Help me wait for the goodness I can't yet taste."
She stood slowly. Across the field, wildflowers she hadn’t noticed before pushed bravely through the cracked soil — tiny bursts of purple and gold defying the dryness. A quiet smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.
She was not alone. She would not be forgotten. The story of her life was still being written, even if, for now, she could only read a single difficult chapter.
Shira turned toward home, the hope flickering inside her like a newly kindled flame — small, but enough.
—
Supporting Torah Verses:
Shira clutched the hem of her shawl tighter around her shoulders as she stared out over the dusty fields that were no longer hers. The bitterness swelled in her chest until it choked her. A cousin had manipulated the court, spinning lies smoother than silk, and with a few cold signatures, she had lost everything her father had built. It wasn’t fair. She had done everything right — prayed, followed the mitzvot, loved her family, worked the land with her own hands — and still, nothing had shielded her from betrayal.
The sun slid lower, gold lacing the edges of the clouds. Shadows stretched long and thin across the cracked earth. Shira pressed her forehead against the ancient wooden fence, her tears soaking into it. "Why, HaShem?" she whispered. "Where are You in all of this?"
In the heavy silence, a breeze stirred, carrying the scent of wild mint growing stubbornly at the foot of the fence. Something tightened painfully in her chest — a longing for the days when her father’s laughter filled the fields and she believed, bone-deep, that G-d’s goodness was as real as the beating of her heart.
She turned away, ready to drown herself in the small, sad rented house she now lived in. But a small sound tugged at her — laughter, high and bubbling. Across the road, a cluster of children ran, chasing a tattered ribbon caught on the wind. It was nothing — a game, a scrap — but as Shira watched, something shifted.
One little girl, the smallest of them, stumbled to the dusty ground. Shira caught herself flinching, waiting for the others to leave her behind. But instead, the oldest boy reached down, not with impatience but with gentleness — like it was the most natural thing in the world — and lifted her to her feet. The girl’s face bloomed into a smile so radiant, it seemed to spill over into the evening air.
Something in Shira's heart cracked open. A memory drifted up — her father’s voice, rough and tender: “HaMakom, the One who is everywhere, will not abandon you. Even when you cannot see the good, it is growing, like seeds underground.” His arms had always been so sure around her as he said it, grounding her, reminding her that life was more than what eyes could see.
Shira sank onto a low stone near the fence. For a long time, she sat there, breathing, the sorrow not vanished but shifting, loosening its grip. Perhaps life was unfair. Perhaps people lied and schemed and sometimes terrible things happened. But maybe — maybe underneath that, unseen — G-d was planting something she couldn't yet fathom.
A soft peace, fragile but real, brushed her soul.
And for the first time in weeks, Shira whispered not a question but a prayer: "Help me see, HaShem. Help me wait for the goodness I can't yet taste."
She stood slowly. Across the field, wildflowers she hadn’t noticed before pushed bravely through the cracked soil — tiny bursts of purple and gold defying the dryness. A quiet smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.
She was not alone. She would not be forgotten. The story of her life was still being written, even if, for now, she could only read a single difficult chapter.
Shira turned toward home, the hope flickering inside her like a newly kindled flame — small, but enough.
—
Supporting Torah Verses: