The first time Noa planted a fig tree, she thought victory would look like a full basket of fruit by the next summer. She was twenty then, full of burning prayers and dreams stitched quick and tight, believing if she worked hard enough, waited just right, everything would come.
She was thirty-three when the fig tree finally bore its first real harvest.
Noa sat on the porch steps that morning, pressing her hands into the worn wood, her knees drawn close. The light was weak yet — just the gentle pink of early dawn — but she could see them clearly enough: tiny figs tucked among green leaves, heavy and sweet even from a distance.
She wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry.
For thirteen years, she pruned and watered and hoped through dry seasons when nothing grew except disappointment. She prayed. Baruch Atah Hashem, You are my hope. She told herself stories of Sarah waiting, of Yosef imprisoned, of countless promises that seemed tangled or forgotten, only to blossom in their own time. Still, lonely mornings stretched endlessly, and prayers felt like stones dropped into a bottomless well.
And now, here it was. Quiet and small, a truth made visible under the open sky.
A soft shuffle behind her pulled Noa from her daze. Little Ayelet, her neighbor’s daughter, still clutching the mismatched red boots she insisted on wearing no matter the season, plodded up to her. Without a word, Ayelet plunked herself down beside Noa and leaned against her arm.
"You’re squishing me," Noa murmured, laughing despite herself.
Ayelet lifted her head and said solemnly, "Mommy says your tree is the happiest tree in the whole world."
Noa blinked. Tears pricked the corners of her eyes. She didn’t feel like the happiest anything most days. Tired of waiting, tired of hoping. Sometimes she was tired of believing G-d heard her at all.
At that moment, a verse floated into her mind, unbidden but sure: "He has made everything beautiful in its time." (Ecclesiastes 3:11)
Not in her time.
In His.
It was such a simple thing. She had known it her whole life, heard it read from the bimah, embroidered it into wall hangings, sung it in songs. But now, sitting beneath the trembling early light, beside a child’s absolute trust, she felt it beat inside her like another heart.
She had not been forgotten. She had not been foolish to hope.
Ayelet poked her with a small, curious finger. "Are you crying?"
"Maybe a little," Noa said. She wiped her cheeks with the sleeve of her sweater and smiled down at the girl. "But they’re happy tears."
The sun rose a little higher, casting long golden ribbons across the ground. The figs swayed gently in the morning breeze, a thousand small promises come true.
Noa gathered Ayelet close and kissed the top of her wild curls. "Come," she whispered, as much to the child as to her own soul. "Let's see what blessings today will bring."
Maybe the waiting wasn’t wasted time after all. Maybe it was the very soil in which trust grew — slow and deep and lasting.
And maybe, just maybe, the harvest had only just begun.
— ✡️ Supporting Torah & TaNaKh Verses ✡️ —
The first time Noa planted a fig tree, she thought victory would look like a full basket of fruit by the next summer. She was twenty then, full of burning prayers and dreams stitched quick and tight, believing if she worked hard enough, waited just right, everything would come.
She was thirty-three when the fig tree finally bore its first real harvest.
Noa sat on the porch steps that morning, pressing her hands into the worn wood, her knees drawn close. The light was weak yet — just the gentle pink of early dawn — but she could see them clearly enough: tiny figs tucked among green leaves, heavy and sweet even from a distance.
She wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry.
For thirteen years, she pruned and watered and hoped through dry seasons when nothing grew except disappointment. She prayed. Baruch Atah Hashem, You are my hope. She told herself stories of Sarah waiting, of Yosef imprisoned, of countless promises that seemed tangled or forgotten, only to blossom in their own time. Still, lonely mornings stretched endlessly, and prayers felt like stones dropped into a bottomless well.
And now, here it was. Quiet and small, a truth made visible under the open sky.
A soft shuffle behind her pulled Noa from her daze. Little Ayelet, her neighbor’s daughter, still clutching the mismatched red boots she insisted on wearing no matter the season, plodded up to her. Without a word, Ayelet plunked herself down beside Noa and leaned against her arm.
"You’re squishing me," Noa murmured, laughing despite herself.
Ayelet lifted her head and said solemnly, "Mommy says your tree is the happiest tree in the whole world."
Noa blinked. Tears pricked the corners of her eyes. She didn’t feel like the happiest anything most days. Tired of waiting, tired of hoping. Sometimes she was tired of believing G-d heard her at all.
At that moment, a verse floated into her mind, unbidden but sure: "He has made everything beautiful in its time." (Ecclesiastes 3:11)
Not in her time.
In His.
It was such a simple thing. She had known it her whole life, heard it read from the bimah, embroidered it into wall hangings, sung it in songs. But now, sitting beneath the trembling early light, beside a child’s absolute trust, she felt it beat inside her like another heart.
She had not been forgotten. She had not been foolish to hope.
Ayelet poked her with a small, curious finger. "Are you crying?"
"Maybe a little," Noa said. She wiped her cheeks with the sleeve of her sweater and smiled down at the girl. "But they’re happy tears."
The sun rose a little higher, casting long golden ribbons across the ground. The figs swayed gently in the morning breeze, a thousand small promises come true.
Noa gathered Ayelet close and kissed the top of her wild curls. "Come," she whispered, as much to the child as to her own soul. "Let's see what blessings today will bring."
Maybe the waiting wasn’t wasted time after all. Maybe it was the very soil in which trust grew — slow and deep and lasting.
And maybe, just maybe, the harvest had only just begun.
— ✡️ Supporting Torah & TaNaKh Verses ✡️ —
