Maya stood at the edge of the dusty road, the synagogue’s old stone walls behind her, her suitcase beside her. The afternoon sun blazed down, but she couldn’t feel its warmth; it was as if the world had shifted into a place where she no longer belonged. Just last month, her life had seemed so beautifully clear — the university acceptance letter, the scholarship, the dreams all lined up like candles on Shabbat. And then, one by one, everything had unraveled. The program was canceled. The funding dried up. The friends she thought would cheer her on had drifted away, uncomfortable with her grief.
She squeezed the worn leather strap of her satchel, feeling helpless. Had she misunderstood? Had she chased a dream that was never hers to hold?
Across the street, a little boy chased a bright blue balloon, laughing as it bobbed into the sky. He tripped, landing hard on the sidewalk. Maya winced as she watched him sit there, stunned, lips trembling. But then — without anyone rushing to him — the boy brushed his dusty palms on his shorts, scrambled up, and kept running after the balloon, laughing again through his tears.
Something loosened inside Maya’s chest. She hadn’t realized how tightly she had been holding her sorrow.
With a sigh, she picked up her suitcase and started walking, each step crunching against the gravel. She knew the streets of her town like the prayer rhythms of her childhood — the way Abba’s voice would lift and fall during Friday night Kiddush, the way Mama lit candles with trembling hands, whispering blessings toward the window, as if sending them out into the world.
An echo of words floated back to her now, not from her parents, but from the prophet Jeremiah she used to love reading as a girl: "For I know the plans I have for you, declares Hashem, plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future."
A future. Even if it didn’t look the way she had imagined.
Maya wandered into the small park by the butcher’s shop, sinking onto a faded picnic bench. Her suitcase thudded onto the grass. Overhead, the tree branches shivered under a sudden cool breeze, and leaves whispered secrets she couldn’t quite hear. She closed her eyes.
Slowly, as if G-d Himself were weaving peace into her battered spirit, Maya felt the ache inside her loosen. What if this emptiness wasn’t an ending, but space being cleared for something she couldn’t see yet? Like the vineyards that looked dead in winter — stark bones against gray soil — but were only resting before their finest harvest.
Tears slipped down her cheeks — not heavy, hopeless ones now, but soft and cleansing. She whispered a prayer she barely even knew she remembered: "Strengthen me, Hashem. Steady my steps."
When she finally opened her eyes, there was a woman sitting a few benches away, knitting something small and colorful. Their eyes met for a brief moment. The woman smiled — not a grand gesture, just something kind and real, like the warmth of fresh challah.
Maya smiled back, heart quietly blooming.
She didn’t know what tomorrow would look like. But she knew she wouldn’t walk into it alone.
She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, lifted her suitcase, and turned her face toward whatever G-d was writing next.
—
Supporting Torah and Tanakh Verses:
Maya stood at the edge of the dusty road, the synagogue’s old stone walls behind her, her suitcase beside her. The afternoon sun blazed down, but she couldn’t feel its warmth; it was as if the world had shifted into a place where she no longer belonged. Just last month, her life had seemed so beautifully clear — the university acceptance letter, the scholarship, the dreams all lined up like candles on Shabbat. And then, one by one, everything had unraveled. The program was canceled. The funding dried up. The friends she thought would cheer her on had drifted away, uncomfortable with her grief.
She squeezed the worn leather strap of her satchel, feeling helpless. Had she misunderstood? Had she chased a dream that was never hers to hold?
Across the street, a little boy chased a bright blue balloon, laughing as it bobbed into the sky. He tripped, landing hard on the sidewalk. Maya winced as she watched him sit there, stunned, lips trembling. But then — without anyone rushing to him — the boy brushed his dusty palms on his shorts, scrambled up, and kept running after the balloon, laughing again through his tears.
Something loosened inside Maya’s chest. She hadn’t realized how tightly she had been holding her sorrow.
With a sigh, she picked up her suitcase and started walking, each step crunching against the gravel. She knew the streets of her town like the prayer rhythms of her childhood — the way Abba’s voice would lift and fall during Friday night Kiddush, the way Mama lit candles with trembling hands, whispering blessings toward the window, as if sending them out into the world.
An echo of words floated back to her now, not from her parents, but from the prophet Jeremiah she used to love reading as a girl: "For I know the plans I have for you, declares Hashem, plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future."
A future. Even if it didn’t look the way she had imagined.
Maya wandered into the small park by the butcher’s shop, sinking onto a faded picnic bench. Her suitcase thudded onto the grass. Overhead, the tree branches shivered under a sudden cool breeze, and leaves whispered secrets she couldn’t quite hear. She closed her eyes.
Slowly, as if G-d Himself were weaving peace into her battered spirit, Maya felt the ache inside her loosen. What if this emptiness wasn’t an ending, but space being cleared for something she couldn’t see yet? Like the vineyards that looked dead in winter — stark bones against gray soil — but were only resting before their finest harvest.
Tears slipped down her cheeks — not heavy, hopeless ones now, but soft and cleansing. She whispered a prayer she barely even knew she remembered: "Strengthen me, Hashem. Steady my steps."
When she finally opened her eyes, there was a woman sitting a few benches away, knitting something small and colorful. Their eyes met for a brief moment. The woman smiled — not a grand gesture, just something kind and real, like the warmth of fresh challah.
Maya smiled back, heart quietly blooming.
She didn’t know what tomorrow would look like. But she knew she wouldn’t walk into it alone.
She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, lifted her suitcase, and turned her face toward whatever G-d was writing next.
—
Supporting Torah and Tanakh Verses:
