The day Rivka packed away her wedding dress was the day her heart folded in, stiff and bruised like the tulle she crammed into the attic chest. The engagement had unraveled only weeks before the chuppah, and even now, a year later, she could still feel the echo of the ring slipping from her finger, the sound of hope dropping silent to the floor.
Today, the sky dripped with cold mist, soaking the garden she neglected behind her small apartment. Rivka wrapped herself in an old sweater and sank onto the back steps, watching the earth turn to mud. Her neighbor’s children shrieked and squealed in the next yard, puddle-stomping with abandon, but she sat still, letting the dull ache in her chest stretch until she felt almost hollow.
"Enough," she whispered to no one, the word snatched by the wind. Hadn't she trusted? Hadn't she prayed with tears saltier than the Mediterranean? And yet.
A clumsy splash caught her attention. Little Miriam from next door, face flushed and curls plastered to her cheeks, held something out across the fence: a squashed bouquet of wild daffodils, their yellow heads bobbing pitifully.
"For you!" she chirped. "Flowers because you look sad."
Rivka blinked at the child, at the clump of earth trailing from the stems. She hesitated—one could hardly call those battered things beautiful—but still, her hands reached out, trembling, to accept them.
"Thank you, motek," she heard herself say.
And something shifted.
Against reason, against the thick heaviness inside her, a crack of almost-something threaded through her spirit. Rivka tucked the wilting flowers into an old glass on her kitchen table. They looked absurd, drooping to one side, but every time she glanced at them, her soul shivered—not in sadness, but in the memory of small, inexplicable kindness.
The Torah teaches that HaShem binds up the brokenhearted, and in the days that followed, Rivka learned that sometimes, binding is a slow, careful thread pulled through tiny stitches a little at a time. Sunshine after three days of rain. A remembered melody her mother used to hum while cooking Shabbat dinner. A neighbor slipping a warm challah into her hands without a word on Friday afternoon.
And one gray morning, as Rivka weeded out a patch of her neglected garden, her fingers buried deep in cold earth, she found something astonishing—a slender sprout, forcing its way through a tangle of dead leaves. Against the odds, against the season, something new had dared to push toward the light.
She knelt there for a long time, mud streaking her skirt, tears tracking down her cheeks, not of sadness but of quiet, trembling awe. If this tender, green thing could trust the hidden work of the earth enough to grow again, perhaps she, too, could trust the hidden work of G-d in her life.
Perhaps disappointment was not the last chapter.
Rivka didn't feel finished. She was still bruised in places she couldn’t yet name. But deep in her chest, stubborn and shy, tiny roots of hope softened the hardened soil of her heart.
The daffodils finally withered completely in their glass, and when Rivka tossed them into the compost, she didn't feel grief. Instead, she planted new seeds—tiny ones—marigolds and lavender and herbs that would perfume the air by summer.
Each day she watered them, not out of certainty, but out of trust.
Because even though the past year had stripped her bare, Rivka was learning what the Psalms whispered all along: "You have turned for me my mourning into dancing." Under the tangle of disappointment, life was still beginning.
Again and again and again.
—
Torah and Tanakh References:
The day Rivka packed away her wedding dress was the day her heart folded in, stiff and bruised like the tulle she crammed into the attic chest. The engagement had unraveled only weeks before the chuppah, and even now, a year later, she could still feel the echo of the ring slipping from her finger, the sound of hope dropping silent to the floor.
Today, the sky dripped with cold mist, soaking the garden she neglected behind her small apartment. Rivka wrapped herself in an old sweater and sank onto the back steps, watching the earth turn to mud. Her neighbor’s children shrieked and squealed in the next yard, puddle-stomping with abandon, but she sat still, letting the dull ache in her chest stretch until she felt almost hollow.
"Enough," she whispered to no one, the word snatched by the wind. Hadn't she trusted? Hadn't she prayed with tears saltier than the Mediterranean? And yet.
A clumsy splash caught her attention. Little Miriam from next door, face flushed and curls plastered to her cheeks, held something out across the fence: a squashed bouquet of wild daffodils, their yellow heads bobbing pitifully.
"For you!" she chirped. "Flowers because you look sad."
Rivka blinked at the child, at the clump of earth trailing from the stems. She hesitated—one could hardly call those battered things beautiful—but still, her hands reached out, trembling, to accept them.
"Thank you, motek," she heard herself say.
And something shifted.
Against reason, against the thick heaviness inside her, a crack of almost-something threaded through her spirit. Rivka tucked the wilting flowers into an old glass on her kitchen table. They looked absurd, drooping to one side, but every time she glanced at them, her soul shivered—not in sadness, but in the memory of small, inexplicable kindness.
The Torah teaches that HaShem binds up the brokenhearted, and in the days that followed, Rivka learned that sometimes, binding is a slow, careful thread pulled through tiny stitches a little at a time. Sunshine after three days of rain. A remembered melody her mother used to hum while cooking Shabbat dinner. A neighbor slipping a warm challah into her hands without a word on Friday afternoon.
And one gray morning, as Rivka weeded out a patch of her neglected garden, her fingers buried deep in cold earth, she found something astonishing—a slender sprout, forcing its way through a tangle of dead leaves. Against the odds, against the season, something new had dared to push toward the light.
She knelt there for a long time, mud streaking her skirt, tears tracking down her cheeks, not of sadness but of quiet, trembling awe. If this tender, green thing could trust the hidden work of the earth enough to grow again, perhaps she, too, could trust the hidden work of G-d in her life.
Perhaps disappointment was not the last chapter.
Rivka didn't feel finished. She was still bruised in places she couldn’t yet name. But deep in her chest, stubborn and shy, tiny roots of hope softened the hardened soil of her heart.
The daffodils finally withered completely in their glass, and when Rivka tossed them into the compost, she didn't feel grief. Instead, she planted new seeds—tiny ones—marigolds and lavender and herbs that would perfume the air by summer.
Each day she watered them, not out of certainty, but out of trust.
Because even though the past year had stripped her bare, Rivka was learning what the Psalms whispered all along: "You have turned for me my mourning into dancing." Under the tangle of disappointment, life was still beginning.
Again and again and again.
—
Torah and Tanakh References:
