Talia sat at the small kitchen table, her hands wrapped around a chipped mug of tea, now gone cold. Outside, grey clouds sagged over the Jerusalem hills, the sharp fragrance of damp stone rising with the promise of rain. She rested her forehead against the windowpane and, for the hundredth time, whispered, "How much longer, HaShem?"
The clock on the wall ticked steadily, an insolent reminder that time moved forward while her prayers stayed unanswered. For two years, she and Eliyahu had waited, prayed, fasted — hoping for a child who never came. Each month ended in tears, in aching silence. And yet, every morning and evening, she lit the candles, whispered the Shema, sang the psalms her grandmother had taught her on their walks through Tzfat's narrow alleys.
But lately, the words had gotten stuck in her throat. It felt dishonest to sing when her heart was fractured. Why praise G-d when her arms felt endlessly empty?
A soft knock interrupted her spiral. She found little Daniel, her neighbor's boy, standing there, clutching something in his grubby hands.
"I brought you somethin’," he said shyly, revealing a tiny clay pot. Inside, a sapling no taller than a finger quivered — barely a sprig, uncertain of its place in the world.
"It's for you," he said. "Because ima says you’re really good at helping things grow."
Talia knelt, accepting the gift with shaking hands. "Thank you," she whispered, feeling tears prick her eyes. The sapling was crooked, half-wilted, but bravely alive.
After Daniel scampered away, Talia set the plant on her kitchen table. She crouched before it, watching its trembling leaves.
Something stirred within her — a memory.
Her saba's voice, rough and full of song, telling her as a little girl, "Even when we can't see the fruit, we plant with hope. Even when the field is barren, we sing to the One who brings rain."
Talia touched the soil with a fingertip. It was dry. Thirsty.
She thought of Habakkuk: "Though the fig tree does not blossom, nor there be fruit on the vines... yet I will rejoice in the Lord." Not because she had what she longed for — but because He was good, whether or not she understood.
Talia sat back in her chair, pulling the siddur close. She stared at it for a long moment, heart hammering, breath uneven. Then, before her mind could argue, she whispered the words of David: "I will bless the Lord at all times; His praise shall continually be in my mouth."
The words felt foreign at first, jagged. But then a softness bloomed. Praise — not because she had received, but because she was beloved.
As rain finally began misting the window, soaking into the thirsty ground, Talia sang.
Her voice — small, cracked — wavered, and then grew steadier. In the presence of her small kitchen, her aching heart, her fledgling tree, she chose to worship, not for outcomes, but for the unfailing kindness of Hashem.
The rain thudded slightly harder, a symphony of promises not yet seen.
Talia smiled through her tears, feeling — truly feeling — she was not alone. There was life here, even now. Life still growing, even in the waiting.
She folded her arms around her chest and rocked gently, singing, while outside the world was being made new again.
—
Torah/Tanakh Verses:
Talia sat at the small kitchen table, her hands wrapped around a chipped mug of tea, now gone cold. Outside, grey clouds sagged over the Jerusalem hills, the sharp fragrance of damp stone rising with the promise of rain. She rested her forehead against the windowpane and, for the hundredth time, whispered, "How much longer, HaShem?"
The clock on the wall ticked steadily, an insolent reminder that time moved forward while her prayers stayed unanswered. For two years, she and Eliyahu had waited, prayed, fasted — hoping for a child who never came. Each month ended in tears, in aching silence. And yet, every morning and evening, she lit the candles, whispered the Shema, sang the psalms her grandmother had taught her on their walks through Tzfat's narrow alleys.
But lately, the words had gotten stuck in her throat. It felt dishonest to sing when her heart was fractured. Why praise G-d when her arms felt endlessly empty?
A soft knock interrupted her spiral. She found little Daniel, her neighbor's boy, standing there, clutching something in his grubby hands.
"I brought you somethin’," he said shyly, revealing a tiny clay pot. Inside, a sapling no taller than a finger quivered — barely a sprig, uncertain of its place in the world.
"It's for you," he said. "Because ima says you’re really good at helping things grow."
Talia knelt, accepting the gift with shaking hands. "Thank you," she whispered, feeling tears prick her eyes. The sapling was crooked, half-wilted, but bravely alive.
After Daniel scampered away, Talia set the plant on her kitchen table. She crouched before it, watching its trembling leaves.
Something stirred within her — a memory.
Her saba's voice, rough and full of song, telling her as a little girl, "Even when we can't see the fruit, we plant with hope. Even when the field is barren, we sing to the One who brings rain."
Talia touched the soil with a fingertip. It was dry. Thirsty.
She thought of Habakkuk: "Though the fig tree does not blossom, nor there be fruit on the vines... yet I will rejoice in the Lord." Not because she had what she longed for — but because He was good, whether or not she understood.
Talia sat back in her chair, pulling the siddur close. She stared at it for a long moment, heart hammering, breath uneven. Then, before her mind could argue, she whispered the words of David: "I will bless the Lord at all times; His praise shall continually be in my mouth."
The words felt foreign at first, jagged. But then a softness bloomed. Praise — not because she had received, but because she was beloved.
As rain finally began misting the window, soaking into the thirsty ground, Talia sang.
Her voice — small, cracked — wavered, and then grew steadier. In the presence of her small kitchen, her aching heart, her fledgling tree, she chose to worship, not for outcomes, but for the unfailing kindness of Hashem.
The rain thudded slightly harder, a symphony of promises not yet seen.
Talia smiled through her tears, feeling — truly feeling — she was not alone. There was life here, even now. Life still growing, even in the waiting.
She folded her arms around her chest and rocked gently, singing, while outside the world was being made new again.
—
Torah/Tanakh Verses:
