Ava dropped the basket of laundry and sat heavily on the worn kitchen floor, blinking back tears. The house was too quiet, save for the whir of the old refrigerator and the distant creek of a settling beam. A week ago, it had been filled with laughter, guests coming and going for her brother’s wedding. Now it just echoed all the things she hadn't said, all the ways she felt unseen, unnecessary, too tired to matter.
She wrapped her arms around her knees and buried her face against them. "Where are You?" she whispered into her sleeves, feeling the words dissolve into the air. "Am I invisible even to You?"
Rain tapped at the windows, soft and persistent. Ava barely noticed it until she caught the scent—the deep, rich smell of earth drinking its fill. It tugged at something long-forgotten inside her. She lifted her head and scooted to the window, pressing her forehead against the cool glass.
The backyard, usually so battered by sun and dust, was drinking. Tiny rivulets carved paths through dry earth, and in one corner, a stubborn patch of green wavered in the drizzle. Ava’s chest ached in a way that surprised her—not with sadness, but tenderness. How had the grass survived there, even in so much drought?
She pressed her palm flat against the glass. A memory flickered across her mind—her mother’s voice, reading Devarim late at night, a verse drifting on the air like a lullaby: "But from there you will seek Hashem your G-d and you will find Him, if you search after Him with all your heart and all your soul."
Ava wasn’t in any foreign land—she was home. But somehow, she'd wandered just as far. Maybe the search wasn’t about grand quests or spotless days. Maybe it was right here, in the kitchen mess, the loneliness, the worn-out days of doing the next thing.
Breath hitching, she leaned her head back against the wall and let herself feel the weight of it—the despair, the yearning—and then, incredibly, the smallest flicker of hope. A soft nudge against her spirit, quiet as rain: His fingerprints were everywhere. In the stubborn green grass. In the rain healing the earth. In her own heart still reaching, even when it felt pointless.
A giggle broke the silence. Ava turned, startled. At the kitchen door stood her neighbor’s little girl, Rivka, holding out a slightly damp bouquet of wildflowers. "Found these for you," Rivka said, beaming, her braids dripping from the rain.
Ava knelt, accepting the soggy offering with trembling hands. "Thank you, sweet one," she whispered, pulling Rivka into a hug.
Something inside her broke open—softly, quietly, the way soil breaks to make room for seeds. She saw it so clearly now: G-d wasn't waiting for her to be stronger, better, less messy. He was here, rain-soaked and glorious, right in her struggle, right in her reaching. She wasn't invisible. She was seen—and deeply loved.
Later that evening, as twilight softened the edges of the worn kitchen, Ava placed the wildflowers in a jar and set them on the windowsill. She smiled, not because the problems were gone, but because she was no longer carrying them alone.
The rain continued into the night, but inside, Ava felt something blooming: a quiet, rooted kind of hope.
—
Torah and Tanakh Support:
Ava dropped the basket of laundry and sat heavily on the worn kitchen floor, blinking back tears. The house was too quiet, save for the whir of the old refrigerator and the distant creek of a settling beam. A week ago, it had been filled with laughter, guests coming and going for her brother’s wedding. Now it just echoed all the things she hadn't said, all the ways she felt unseen, unnecessary, too tired to matter.
She wrapped her arms around her knees and buried her face against them. "Where are You?" she whispered into her sleeves, feeling the words dissolve into the air. "Am I invisible even to You?"
Rain tapped at the windows, soft and persistent. Ava barely noticed it until she caught the scent—the deep, rich smell of earth drinking its fill. It tugged at something long-forgotten inside her. She lifted her head and scooted to the window, pressing her forehead against the cool glass.
The backyard, usually so battered by sun and dust, was drinking. Tiny rivulets carved paths through dry earth, and in one corner, a stubborn patch of green wavered in the drizzle. Ava’s chest ached in a way that surprised her—not with sadness, but tenderness. How had the grass survived there, even in so much drought?
She pressed her palm flat against the glass. A memory flickered across her mind—her mother’s voice, reading Devarim late at night, a verse drifting on the air like a lullaby: "But from there you will seek Hashem your G-d and you will find Him, if you search after Him with all your heart and all your soul."
Ava wasn’t in any foreign land—she was home. But somehow, she'd wandered just as far. Maybe the search wasn’t about grand quests or spotless days. Maybe it was right here, in the kitchen mess, the loneliness, the worn-out days of doing the next thing.
Breath hitching, she leaned her head back against the wall and let herself feel the weight of it—the despair, the yearning—and then, incredibly, the smallest flicker of hope. A soft nudge against her spirit, quiet as rain: His fingerprints were everywhere. In the stubborn green grass. In the rain healing the earth. In her own heart still reaching, even when it felt pointless.
A giggle broke the silence. Ava turned, startled. At the kitchen door stood her neighbor’s little girl, Rivka, holding out a slightly damp bouquet of wildflowers. "Found these for you," Rivka said, beaming, her braids dripping from the rain.
Ava knelt, accepting the soggy offering with trembling hands. "Thank you, sweet one," she whispered, pulling Rivka into a hug.
Something inside her broke open—softly, quietly, the way soil breaks to make room for seeds. She saw it so clearly now: G-d wasn't waiting for her to be stronger, better, less messy. He was here, rain-soaked and glorious, right in her struggle, right in her reaching. She wasn't invisible. She was seen—and deeply loved.
Later that evening, as twilight softened the edges of the worn kitchen, Ava placed the wildflowers in a jar and set them on the windowsill. She smiled, not because the problems were gone, but because she was no longer carrying them alone.
The rain continued into the night, but inside, Ava felt something blooming: a quiet, rooted kind of hope.
—
Torah and Tanakh Support:
