The first rain came late that year.
Mira stood beneath the overhang of her porch, watching the gray clouds gather, her arms wrapped tight around her waist. Her lips moved without sound, whispering the same prayer she’d said a thousand times before: Please, G-d, let it be now. Let it change.
For months, she had prayed—for the baby she had yet to conceive, for the job she couldn’t find, for the silent aching places inside her heart to finally mend. And for months, there had been no word, no shift, no softening. The heavens had stayed closed, and her hope had begun to dry up like the cracked soil of her father’s vineyard beyond the hills.
Mira didn’t realize she was crying until a warm tear slid into the corner of her mouth, tasting of salt and tender bitterness. "Why?" she whispered into the wind. "Why keep asking if You’re not going to answer?"
The first drop of rain struck the wooden railing, a dark spot blooming against the pale wood. Then another. Then more. Within moments, the dry earth around her was breathing deeply, drinking in what it had longed for without assurance it would ever come.
Mira stepped into the rain without thinking, lifting her face to the sky like the thirsty soil. The cold drops soaked her hair, her dress, her closed eyelids. She stood there for a long time, letting the rain wash quietly over her skin, and slowly, something inside her began to loosen.
Surely the earth had not stopped believing the rain would come.
Surely the vineyard beyond the hills had stretched its roots deeper in quiet faith, even when the skies were silent.
Was her own soul so different?
A memory surfaced—her grandfather’s voice, scratchy with age but warm, reading from the Tanakh by the light of Shabbat candles: "For we walk by faith, not by sight." She could almost hear him chuckling as he folded the book closed, telling her, "Mira’le, sometimes the harvest comes long after the prayers are sown."
The wind blew softly around her. A child’s laugh rang out from across the street, bright and unburdened. Peering through the soft mist of rain, she saw a little boy in a yellow jacket dancing into puddles, arms flung wide to the sky.
Mira smiled—a real smile, tender and a little tremulous.
Maybe life wasn’t about shouting louder into the silence. Maybe faith was stepping into the rain when you weren’t sure it would fall. Maybe the prayer itself had been an answer all along—a sign she was still reaching, still longing, still alive.
The rain softened to a mist. Mira’s heart, too, settled into a quieter rhythm, no longer demanding, just breathing, trusting.
She turned back toward the house, leaving small wet footprints behind her. The unanswered prayers still hung quietly within her, but they no longer felt like a closed door. They felt like seeds resting underground, hidden but alive.
She made tea as the storm whispered on. Tiny rivulets raced down the windowpanes, and Mira watched them with quiet wonder. She did not know when the next answer would come. She only knew she would keep walking, step by step, by faith and not sight.
Outside, the earth drank deeply, and somewhere beyond the mist, she imagined, new life was already stirring.
—
Torah and Tanakh Verses Supporting the Story:
The first rain came late that year.
Mira stood beneath the overhang of her porch, watching the gray clouds gather, her arms wrapped tight around her waist. Her lips moved without sound, whispering the same prayer she’d said a thousand times before: Please, G-d, let it be now. Let it change.
For months, she had prayed—for the baby she had yet to conceive, for the job she couldn’t find, for the silent aching places inside her heart to finally mend. And for months, there had been no word, no shift, no softening. The heavens had stayed closed, and her hope had begun to dry up like the cracked soil of her father’s vineyard beyond the hills.
Mira didn’t realize she was crying until a warm tear slid into the corner of her mouth, tasting of salt and tender bitterness. "Why?" she whispered into the wind. "Why keep asking if You’re not going to answer?"
The first drop of rain struck the wooden railing, a dark spot blooming against the pale wood. Then another. Then more. Within moments, the dry earth around her was breathing deeply, drinking in what it had longed for without assurance it would ever come.
Mira stepped into the rain without thinking, lifting her face to the sky like the thirsty soil. The cold drops soaked her hair, her dress, her closed eyelids. She stood there for a long time, letting the rain wash quietly over her skin, and slowly, something inside her began to loosen.
Surely the earth had not stopped believing the rain would come.
Surely the vineyard beyond the hills had stretched its roots deeper in quiet faith, even when the skies were silent.
Was her own soul so different?
A memory surfaced—her grandfather’s voice, scratchy with age but warm, reading from the Tanakh by the light of Shabbat candles: "For we walk by faith, not by sight." She could almost hear him chuckling as he folded the book closed, telling her, "Mira’le, sometimes the harvest comes long after the prayers are sown."
The wind blew softly around her. A child’s laugh rang out from across the street, bright and unburdened. Peering through the soft mist of rain, she saw a little boy in a yellow jacket dancing into puddles, arms flung wide to the sky.
Mira smiled—a real smile, tender and a little tremulous.
Maybe life wasn’t about shouting louder into the silence. Maybe faith was stepping into the rain when you weren’t sure it would fall. Maybe the prayer itself had been an answer all along—a sign she was still reaching, still longing, still alive.
The rain softened to a mist. Mira’s heart, too, settled into a quieter rhythm, no longer demanding, just breathing, trusting.
She turned back toward the house, leaving small wet footprints behind her. The unanswered prayers still hung quietly within her, but they no longer felt like a closed door. They felt like seeds resting underground, hidden but alive.
She made tea as the storm whispered on. Tiny rivulets raced down the windowpanes, and Mira watched them with quiet wonder. She did not know when the next answer would come. She only knew she would keep walking, step by step, by faith and not sight.
Outside, the earth drank deeply, and somewhere beyond the mist, she imagined, new life was already stirring.
—
Torah and Tanakh Verses Supporting the Story:
