The storm had passed hours ago, but Mira still sat frozen by the window, hands curled tightly in her lap. Pale sunlight filtered through trembling branches, painting shaky shadows across her living room floor. Every heartbeat echoed in her ears. She had spent so long hiding from what scared her most that moving forward now felt impossible.
Out there, beyond the windowpane, her life waited.
The letter on the table was a summons—not from a court or creditor, but an invitation: a new job opportunity at a small Jewish school two towns over. Teaching had always been her dream, but lately the world outside felt jagged and cruel, and her own fears had grown loud in her mind. What if she failed? What if they laughed at her? She was so tired of being afraid.
Her gaze drifted to the rosebush in the courtyard, a scraggly thing she'd almost pulled up last winter. Some stubborn sliver of green had clung to it through the coldest nights. Now, against reason, it had started to bloom—a single pink bud pushing through the thorns.
Mira leaned her forehead against the cool glass. “Ribbono shel Olam,” she whispered, the prayer escaping before she could think. “I don't know how to move forward. I'm so scared.”
A memory stirred, gentle as a mother’s touch: her father sitting with her under the sukkah, years ago, his voice a quiet thread weaving stories through the evening air. "Mira'le," he had said, placing a hand over her heart, "G-d did not give us fear to keep us prisoner. He gave us fear to teach us when to lean on Him."
Her breath hitched.
Hadn’t G-d promised, in words so ancient they were stitched into the bones of her people? Al tira ki imcha Ani—Do not be afraid, for I am with you. Isaiah’s words, the songs of David stirring in her blood—she hadn't lost them. They had only been waiting for her to remember.
Outside, a sparrow landed clumsily in the courtyard, ruffling its feathers and chirping with wild, defiant joy. Mira smiled through sudden tears. The world had not stopped being hard. But maybe, just maybe, she didn’t have to stand in it alone.
One step. That was all.
Moving slowly, Mira slid her chair back, her legs uncertain under her. She crossed the room and picked up the letter. Doubts shrieked in her mind, but her hands remained steady. She pressed the envelope to her chest, as if absorbing its weight—and then, almost reverently, she placed it into her satchel.
The door handle seemed leagues away. She wrapped her fingers around it anyway and turned.
The air outside was cool and smelled of wet earth. The scent of something alive, growing. She stood in the doorway for a long moment, letting the breeze tangle in her hair. No thunder, no dramatic change—just her breath, still shaky but real, and the whisper of hope rising like a prayer inside her.
G-d was here. And she was not paralyzed anymore.
One step onto the porch.
Another down the path.
Small steps, trembling and holy, carrying her forward.
The roses bobbed in the breeze as if nodding approval.
—
Supporting Torah and Tanakh Verses:
The storm had passed hours ago, but Mira still sat frozen by the window, hands curled tightly in her lap. Pale sunlight filtered through trembling branches, painting shaky shadows across her living room floor. Every heartbeat echoed in her ears. She had spent so long hiding from what scared her most that moving forward now felt impossible.
Out there, beyond the windowpane, her life waited.
The letter on the table was a summons—not from a court or creditor, but an invitation: a new job opportunity at a small Jewish school two towns over. Teaching had always been her dream, but lately the world outside felt jagged and cruel, and her own fears had grown loud in her mind. What if she failed? What if they laughed at her? She was so tired of being afraid.
Her gaze drifted to the rosebush in the courtyard, a scraggly thing she'd almost pulled up last winter. Some stubborn sliver of green had clung to it through the coldest nights. Now, against reason, it had started to bloom—a single pink bud pushing through the thorns.
Mira leaned her forehead against the cool glass. “Ribbono shel Olam,” she whispered, the prayer escaping before she could think. “I don't know how to move forward. I'm so scared.”
A memory stirred, gentle as a mother’s touch: her father sitting with her under the sukkah, years ago, his voice a quiet thread weaving stories through the evening air. "Mira'le," he had said, placing a hand over her heart, "G-d did not give us fear to keep us prisoner. He gave us fear to teach us when to lean on Him."
Her breath hitched.
Hadn’t G-d promised, in words so ancient they were stitched into the bones of her people? Al tira ki imcha Ani—Do not be afraid, for I am with you. Isaiah’s words, the songs of David stirring in her blood—she hadn't lost them. They had only been waiting for her to remember.
Outside, a sparrow landed clumsily in the courtyard, ruffling its feathers and chirping with wild, defiant joy. Mira smiled through sudden tears. The world had not stopped being hard. But maybe, just maybe, she didn’t have to stand in it alone.
One step. That was all.
Moving slowly, Mira slid her chair back, her legs uncertain under her. She crossed the room and picked up the letter. Doubts shrieked in her mind, but her hands remained steady. She pressed the envelope to her chest, as if absorbing its weight—and then, almost reverently, she placed it into her satchel.
The door handle seemed leagues away. She wrapped her fingers around it anyway and turned.
The air outside was cool and smelled of wet earth. The scent of something alive, growing. She stood in the doorway for a long moment, letting the breeze tangle in her hair. No thunder, no dramatic change—just her breath, still shaky but real, and the whisper of hope rising like a prayer inside her.
G-d was here. And she was not paralyzed anymore.
One step onto the porch.
Another down the path.
Small steps, trembling and holy, carrying her forward.
The roses bobbed in the breeze as if nodding approval.
—
Supporting Torah and Tanakh Verses:
