The laundry basket slipped from Miriam’s arms, socks and shirts tumbling across the tile. She stared at the mess with a hollow ache rising in her chest, the same ache she’d been carrying for months now. Another small failure. Another droplet added to the flood she couldn't seem to escape.
She knelt slowly, collecting the clothes with mechanical movements, her mind looping endlessly around the things she couldn’t fix: her father's slow illness, the project deadline slipping through her fingers, the quiet tension between her and Yaakov that neither of them dared name. Everything she tried to hold together seemed to fray in her hands.
Half folding a dishrag, half sobbing, Miriam scooped the laundry back into the basket. From the porch, a breeze stirred the chimes her mother had hung years ago — a tinny, wavering tune that somehow made her heart ache more.
She sat heavily on the floor, dropping the rag into her lap. “HaShem,” she whispered, voice raw, “I can’t do this anymore.”
There was no bolt of lightning or angelic chorus. Just the wind whispering through the olive trees and the hum of distant traffic. She pressed the heels of her hands hard against her eyes, willing herself not to fall apart completely.
Her phone buzzed against the table. A text from her younger neighbor, Chava. “Fresh muffins. Come by?"
Miriam almost dismissed it, the way she had dismissed the last few invitations, the last few offers of help. She was too tired for people, too brittle. But there was something about it — not pressured, not needy, just simple warmth extending toward her — that made her slowly rise from the floor. Maybe she didn’t have to carry it all by herself, after all. Maybe she wasn’t as alone as she felt.
Slipping into sandals, she crossed the courtyard. The jasmine bush by the wall was in full bloom, the tiny white stars breathing a sweetness into the cooling evening. Miriam brushed her fingertips across the blossoms as she passed, feeling the delicate strength in them. Fragile things still found a way to thrive.
Chava greeted her at the door with a shy smile, handing her a still-warm muffin wrapped in a napkin. It was crumbly, golden, imperfect — and utterly perfect.
They sat together on the small porch, saying little. The sun slid low behind the hills, smearing the sky with soft oranges and pinks. The world, with all of its chaos and brokenness, seemed to sigh in the twilight — and Miriam sighed with it. Maybe she didn't have to fight so hard. Maybe she could just... be.
A fragment of a verse floated up from somewhere deep inside her, something she hadn’t thought of since school days: "Be still, and know that I am G-d."
Miriam closed her eyes for a moment, muffin cradled in her palm, the warmth of it seeping into her skin. She thought about her father's smile, thin but still brave; about Yaakov putting an extra blanket over her when she fell asleep at the table; about the neighbor’s simple basket of muffins.
All the battles she couldn’t control were not hers to fight alone. She could lay them down. She could be still.
As darkness cocooned the small courtyard, Miriam stayed wrapped in the quiet — not because everything was fixed, but because G-d, somehow, was here, even now.
And that was enough.
—
Relevant Torah and Tanakh Verses:
The laundry basket slipped from Miriam’s arms, socks and shirts tumbling across the tile. She stared at the mess with a hollow ache rising in her chest, the same ache she’d been carrying for months now. Another small failure. Another droplet added to the flood she couldn't seem to escape.
She knelt slowly, collecting the clothes with mechanical movements, her mind looping endlessly around the things she couldn’t fix: her father's slow illness, the project deadline slipping through her fingers, the quiet tension between her and Yaakov that neither of them dared name. Everything she tried to hold together seemed to fray in her hands.
Half folding a dishrag, half sobbing, Miriam scooped the laundry back into the basket. From the porch, a breeze stirred the chimes her mother had hung years ago — a tinny, wavering tune that somehow made her heart ache more.
She sat heavily on the floor, dropping the rag into her lap. “HaShem,” she whispered, voice raw, “I can’t do this anymore.”
There was no bolt of lightning or angelic chorus. Just the wind whispering through the olive trees and the hum of distant traffic. She pressed the heels of her hands hard against her eyes, willing herself not to fall apart completely.
Her phone buzzed against the table. A text from her younger neighbor, Chava. “Fresh muffins. Come by?"
Miriam almost dismissed it, the way she had dismissed the last few invitations, the last few offers of help. She was too tired for people, too brittle. But there was something about it — not pressured, not needy, just simple warmth extending toward her — that made her slowly rise from the floor. Maybe she didn’t have to carry it all by herself, after all. Maybe she wasn’t as alone as she felt.
Slipping into sandals, she crossed the courtyard. The jasmine bush by the wall was in full bloom, the tiny white stars breathing a sweetness into the cooling evening. Miriam brushed her fingertips across the blossoms as she passed, feeling the delicate strength in them. Fragile things still found a way to thrive.
Chava greeted her at the door with a shy smile, handing her a still-warm muffin wrapped in a napkin. It was crumbly, golden, imperfect — and utterly perfect.
They sat together on the small porch, saying little. The sun slid low behind the hills, smearing the sky with soft oranges and pinks. The world, with all of its chaos and brokenness, seemed to sigh in the twilight — and Miriam sighed with it. Maybe she didn't have to fight so hard. Maybe she could just... be.
A fragment of a verse floated up from somewhere deep inside her, something she hadn’t thought of since school days: "Be still, and know that I am G-d."
Miriam closed her eyes for a moment, muffin cradled in her palm, the warmth of it seeping into her skin. She thought about her father's smile, thin but still brave; about Yaakov putting an extra blanket over her when she fell asleep at the table; about the neighbor’s simple basket of muffins.
All the battles she couldn’t control were not hers to fight alone. She could lay them down. She could be still.
As darkness cocooned the small courtyard, Miriam stayed wrapped in the quiet — not because everything was fixed, but because G-d, somehow, was here, even now.
And that was enough.
—
Relevant Torah and Tanakh Verses:
