The pottery shards glittered in the sun, tiny fractures catching the light like broken promises. Dena sat cross-legged in the field where her childhood home had once stood, the air still heavy with the scent of charred wood. She sifted through the soil, her fingers tracing the smooth edge of a broken bowl. She remembered washing it after Shabbat dinners, laughing when her brother dropped a piece of bread into the soapy water.
Now there was only silence, heavy as a stone on her chest.
Dena had thought faith was something unshakable. But when the fire ripped through Herzliya, taking not just her family's home but her father’s life, she wasn’t sure anymore. It felt like G-d had gone quiet, the way an old friend sometimes stops answering your calls after tragedy strikes.
The ache inside her flared hot. "How am I supposed to trust You now?" she whispered into the dry wind. She waited long moments for something—anything—but there was only the rustle of the burnt oak trees.
Sunlight shifted higher, spilling over the ruins. Her eyes stung—not from smoke, but from the stubborn tears she had refused to let fall for weeks. She lifted another shard from the earth. On its curve, the familiar blue glaze of her mother’s favorite pattern winked through the grime.
A scent floated to her—the faintest trace of jasmine. It made her pause. The small bush by the garden path had survived the fire, blooming stubbornly through the blackened soil. White petals trembled in the breeze, alive despite everything.
Something in her heart cracked, the way earth splits to let new roots in.
Her mother's voice, barely a memory after long months, floated back: "HaShem does not make mistakes. Even when all we see is ashes, He is planting new life beneath."
Dena pressed the shard to her chest. For the first time since the funeral, she allowed herself to weep. Open, heaving sobs that scraped the sorrow from the hollow spaces in her chest. And it was there, in that emptying, she felt something small but fierce awaken inside her: the faintest thread of trust.
Not understanding. Not yet. But the thread was enough.
Later, when she finally rose to her feet, her fingers still curled around that piece of broken pottery. She didn't know exactly what would come next. The house was gone; the life she had known was changed forever. But somewhere beyond her own seeing, she believed G-d's plan was unfolding. Slowly. Quietly.
Perhaps, she thought, trust wasn’t perfect clarity. Maybe it was standing among the ruins and choosing to believe anyway—that buried under ashes was life waiting to break through.
That afternoon, as Dena walked back toward the village, a little boy from her neighborhood raced past her, chasing a paper kite stitched clumsily with bright string. He paused, breathless, and looked up at her.
"This is for you!" he said, holding out the kite, beaming.
The kite flapped awkwardly in the breeze, stitched lines forming the vibrant shape of a laughing bird.
Dena laughed, a sound rich and new and startling, like spring breaking ground after a bitter winter. "Thank you," she whispered, kneeling to accept the gift.
Above them, the sky was a clean, endless blue. And for the first time in a long while, Dena lifted her face into the sunlight and smiled, broken but becoming whole.
—
Supporting Torah/Tanakh Verses:
The pottery shards glittered in the sun, tiny fractures catching the light like broken promises. Dena sat cross-legged in the field where her childhood home had once stood, the air still heavy with the scent of charred wood. She sifted through the soil, her fingers tracing the smooth edge of a broken bowl. She remembered washing it after Shabbat dinners, laughing when her brother dropped a piece of bread into the soapy water.
Now there was only silence, heavy as a stone on her chest.
Dena had thought faith was something unshakable. But when the fire ripped through Herzliya, taking not just her family's home but her father’s life, she wasn’t sure anymore. It felt like G-d had gone quiet, the way an old friend sometimes stops answering your calls after tragedy strikes.
The ache inside her flared hot. "How am I supposed to trust You now?" she whispered into the dry wind. She waited long moments for something—anything—but there was only the rustle of the burnt oak trees.
Sunlight shifted higher, spilling over the ruins. Her eyes stung—not from smoke, but from the stubborn tears she had refused to let fall for weeks. She lifted another shard from the earth. On its curve, the familiar blue glaze of her mother’s favorite pattern winked through the grime.
A scent floated to her—the faintest trace of jasmine. It made her pause. The small bush by the garden path had survived the fire, blooming stubbornly through the blackened soil. White petals trembled in the breeze, alive despite everything.
Something in her heart cracked, the way earth splits to let new roots in.
Her mother's voice, barely a memory after long months, floated back: "HaShem does not make mistakes. Even when all we see is ashes, He is planting new life beneath."
Dena pressed the shard to her chest. For the first time since the funeral, she allowed herself to weep. Open, heaving sobs that scraped the sorrow from the hollow spaces in her chest. And it was there, in that emptying, she felt something small but fierce awaken inside her: the faintest thread of trust.
Not understanding. Not yet. But the thread was enough.
Later, when she finally rose to her feet, her fingers still curled around that piece of broken pottery. She didn't know exactly what would come next. The house was gone; the life she had known was changed forever. But somewhere beyond her own seeing, she believed G-d's plan was unfolding. Slowly. Quietly.
Perhaps, she thought, trust wasn’t perfect clarity. Maybe it was standing among the ruins and choosing to believe anyway—that buried under ashes was life waiting to break through.
That afternoon, as Dena walked back toward the village, a little boy from her neighborhood raced past her, chasing a paper kite stitched clumsily with bright string. He paused, breathless, and looked up at her.
"This is for you!" he said, holding out the kite, beaming.
The kite flapped awkwardly in the breeze, stitched lines forming the vibrant shape of a laughing bird.
Dena laughed, a sound rich and new and startling, like spring breaking ground after a bitter winter. "Thank you," she whispered, kneeling to accept the gift.
Above them, the sky was a clean, endless blue. And for the first time in a long while, Dena lifted her face into the sunlight and smiled, broken but becoming whole.
—
Supporting Torah/Tanakh Verses:
