The bread slipped from Rivka’s trembling hands, falling onto the ground in front of the bakery.
For a long moment, she just stared at it — her last shekel spent, her arms aching from the weight of too many disappointments. Shops bustled around her, neighbors hurried past, but Rivka stayed frozen, the hum of the world fading into a hollow silence inside her.
She felt so tired — soul-tired — as if her spirit were thinning, fraying at the edges like a threadbare scarf. She didn’t remember strength feeling this far away before. Once, she had run through these streets laughing, dreams tumbling out bigger than her arms could hold. Once, she thought strength meant clenching her fists tighter, standing taller, gathering scraps of willpower like armor.
Now even lifting her head felt impossible.
Slowly, Rivka knelt to retrieve the bread. In the motion, a voice she hadn’t thought of in years whispered through her mind — her father’s voice, reading from the worn brown Tanakh on Shabbat afternoons: “He gives strength to the weary, and increases the power of the weak…”
A tear slipped down her cheek before she could stop it.
She gripped the bread to her chest and shuffled toward the small park down the street, seeking a place to breathe.
An empty bench waited between two olive trees. Rivka collapsed onto it, barely noticing the soft rustle of leaves above her. For a long time, she simply sat, bread cradled in her lap, lonelier than she had ever felt — and too numb, even, to pray.
As the minutes stretched and slowed, a small sound caught her attention: the flutter of wings.
She looked up to see a sparrow hop onto the branch just above her, its tiny chest puffing bravely against the wind. It chirped once, twice, tilting its head as if considering her.
Rivka smiled despite herself.
Weren’t the sparrows among the smallest of G-d’s creatures? And yet here it was — cared for, sheltered, singing.
“Even here,” she whispered, the salt of old heartbreak thick in her throat. “I’m not forgotten.”
The sparrow gave a bright, defiant peep before darting off into the sky — a tiny blessing moving through the world with fearless trust.
Breathing shakily, Rivka closed her eyes.
She didn’t need to know how everything would turn out. Strength wasn’t something to wrestle into existence; it was something given. Something she could lean into, the way the tiny bird leaned into the wind, trusting it would lift her.
“Be strong and courageous,” the verses echoed inside her with new warmth. “Do not be afraid… for the Lord your G-d goes with you.”
When she opened her eyes, the world looked the same — and yet different, somehow. The trees stretched upward in golden morning light, and somewhere farther off, a child’s laughter rang between the stores.
The bread in her lap was still heavy, but it no longer felt like despair. It felt like provision.
Rivka gathered her things and rose to her feet. The day ahead would not be easy — she could already feel the weariness tracing the curve of her bones. But inside her heart, new strength unfurled like a flower daring to bloom in rocky soil.
With each step back toward home, she chose to trust: she was not walking alone.
She never had been.
—
Torah and Tanakh Support:
The bread slipped from Rivka’s trembling hands, falling onto the ground in front of the bakery.
For a long moment, she just stared at it — her last shekel spent, her arms aching from the weight of too many disappointments. Shops bustled around her, neighbors hurried past, but Rivka stayed frozen, the hum of the world fading into a hollow silence inside her.
She felt so tired — soul-tired — as if her spirit were thinning, fraying at the edges like a threadbare scarf. She didn’t remember strength feeling this far away before. Once, she had run through these streets laughing, dreams tumbling out bigger than her arms could hold. Once, she thought strength meant clenching her fists tighter, standing taller, gathering scraps of willpower like armor.
Now even lifting her head felt impossible.
Slowly, Rivka knelt to retrieve the bread. In the motion, a voice she hadn’t thought of in years whispered through her mind — her father’s voice, reading from the worn brown Tanakh on Shabbat afternoons: “He gives strength to the weary, and increases the power of the weak…”
A tear slipped down her cheek before she could stop it.
She gripped the bread to her chest and shuffled toward the small park down the street, seeking a place to breathe.
An empty bench waited between two olive trees. Rivka collapsed onto it, barely noticing the soft rustle of leaves above her. For a long time, she simply sat, bread cradled in her lap, lonelier than she had ever felt — and too numb, even, to pray.
As the minutes stretched and slowed, a small sound caught her attention: the flutter of wings.
She looked up to see a sparrow hop onto the branch just above her, its tiny chest puffing bravely against the wind. It chirped once, twice, tilting its head as if considering her.
Rivka smiled despite herself.
Weren’t the sparrows among the smallest of G-d’s creatures? And yet here it was — cared for, sheltered, singing.
“Even here,” she whispered, the salt of old heartbreak thick in her throat. “I’m not forgotten.”
The sparrow gave a bright, defiant peep before darting off into the sky — a tiny blessing moving through the world with fearless trust.
Breathing shakily, Rivka closed her eyes.
She didn’t need to know how everything would turn out. Strength wasn’t something to wrestle into existence; it was something given. Something she could lean into, the way the tiny bird leaned into the wind, trusting it would lift her.
“Be strong and courageous,” the verses echoed inside her with new warmth. “Do not be afraid… for the Lord your G-d goes with you.”
When she opened her eyes, the world looked the same — and yet different, somehow. The trees stretched upward in golden morning light, and somewhere farther off, a child’s laughter rang between the stores.
The bread in her lap was still heavy, but it no longer felt like despair. It felt like provision.
Rivka gathered her things and rose to her feet. The day ahead would not be easy — she could already feel the weariness tracing the curve of her bones. But inside her heart, new strength unfurled like a flower daring to bloom in rocky soil.
With each step back toward home, she chose to trust: she was not walking alone.
She never had been.
—
Torah and Tanakh Support:
