Dina sat on her front steps, twisting the key to her house around her fingers. The late afternoon sun glazed everything gold, but it didn’t reach the ache sitting heavy in her chest. She felt worn-through, hollowed out by disappointments she could no longer name individually — only recognize by the way they pressed against her ribs with every shallow breath.
Once, she had believed things would always get better. That hope was as natural as breathing. But after so many betrayals, so much silence from heaven, she wasn’t sure anymore.
“Maybe I've used up my measure of hope…” she whispered, voice catching.
Across the yard, wind stirred the tall grass. She almost missed it — a small flash of color near the fence. Curious in spite of herself, Dina walked over and found, tucked among the overgrown weeds, a tiny violet crocus pushing its way through the dry earth. It made no sense — this wasn’t planting season, and nothing had survived the harsh summer.
She knelt, brushing the fragile petals with trembling fingers. A memory surfaced — her father, kneeling by their family garden years ago, teaching her how crocus flowers were among the first to bloom after winter: “They remind us, Dina'le, that even when everything looks dead, life is already stirring underneath. G-d doesn't stop working just because we can't see it.”
Tears blurred her vision. She hadn't thought about that in so long.
She straightened slowly, cradling the moment close like a fragile bird. Maybe... maybe hope didn’t require her to be strong first. Maybe it was the seed already planted, the one G-d Himself guarded deep inside her, waiting to spring up again.
That night, instead of falling into bed numb, Dina lit a small candle by the window. It was a foolish thing, really — no one would see it but her. But she wanted to mark the moment, this slender reaching toward hope again.
She carried her tea with her outside, back to the steps under the velvet sky. The stars pricked silver holes across the darkness, so many more than she usually noticed. She pulled her shawl closer around her shoulders and whispered into the night, “I’m tired, G-d. But I’m still here.”
And in the quiet, she felt it: that she wasn’t sitting alone.
A soft, almost imperceptible warmth cradled her heart — not promising quick fixes, not erasing the past, but steady and real. Like the roots of the crocus under the soil, anchoring deep and strong unseen.
The bitter places inside her didn’t disappear overnight. But they didn’t stay untouched either. A slow healing began, stitched by unseen hands who had never abandoned her, even when she thought she was lost beyond finding.
Some hurts leave invisible scars, yes. Yet somehow, Dina found herself smiling into the candle’s trembling light. It was enough — this tiny blooming of hope. Enough to stay. Enough to breathe again. Enough to believe that even here, especially here, G-d was sowing something beautiful.
—
Torah and Tanakh Verses for Reflection:
Dina sat on her front steps, twisting the key to her house around her fingers. The late afternoon sun glazed everything gold, but it didn’t reach the ache sitting heavy in her chest. She felt worn-through, hollowed out by disappointments she could no longer name individually — only recognize by the way they pressed against her ribs with every shallow breath.
Once, she had believed things would always get better. That hope was as natural as breathing. But after so many betrayals, so much silence from heaven, she wasn’t sure anymore.
“Maybe I've used up my measure of hope…” she whispered, voice catching.
Across the yard, wind stirred the tall grass. She almost missed it — a small flash of color near the fence. Curious in spite of herself, Dina walked over and found, tucked among the overgrown weeds, a tiny violet crocus pushing its way through the dry earth. It made no sense — this wasn’t planting season, and nothing had survived the harsh summer.
She knelt, brushing the fragile petals with trembling fingers. A memory surfaced — her father, kneeling by their family garden years ago, teaching her how crocus flowers were among the first to bloom after winter: “They remind us, Dina'le, that even when everything looks dead, life is already stirring underneath. G-d doesn't stop working just because we can't see it.”
Tears blurred her vision. She hadn't thought about that in so long.
She straightened slowly, cradling the moment close like a fragile bird. Maybe... maybe hope didn’t require her to be strong first. Maybe it was the seed already planted, the one G-d Himself guarded deep inside her, waiting to spring up again.
That night, instead of falling into bed numb, Dina lit a small candle by the window. It was a foolish thing, really — no one would see it but her. But she wanted to mark the moment, this slender reaching toward hope again.
She carried her tea with her outside, back to the steps under the velvet sky. The stars pricked silver holes across the darkness, so many more than she usually noticed. She pulled her shawl closer around her shoulders and whispered into the night, “I’m tired, G-d. But I’m still here.”
And in the quiet, she felt it: that she wasn’t sitting alone.
A soft, almost imperceptible warmth cradled her heart — not promising quick fixes, not erasing the past, but steady and real. Like the roots of the crocus under the soil, anchoring deep and strong unseen.
The bitter places inside her didn’t disappear overnight. But they didn’t stay untouched either. A slow healing began, stitched by unseen hands who had never abandoned her, even when she thought she was lost beyond finding.
Some hurts leave invisible scars, yes. Yet somehow, Dina found herself smiling into the candle’s trembling light. It was enough — this tiny blooming of hope. Enough to stay. Enough to breathe again. Enough to believe that even here, especially here, G-d was sowing something beautiful.
—
Torah and Tanakh Verses for Reflection:
