Leora stood on the uneven flagstones of her garden, her arms crossed tightly across her chest, staring at the path just beyond the low stone wall. Her son, Avi, fourteen and brimming with restless energy, vanished around the corner, knapsack swinging carelessly. Yet again, he'd gone without a word of ‘goodbye’ — too excited for life, too hurried for a mother’s warnings or reminders. A breeze tugged at her scarf, and she could feel herself unraveling with it.
She had raised him tethered to Torah, cradled in bedtime Shema prayers, blanketed in Shabbat songs. But now Avi was pulling away — toward new streets and big ideas that didn't always remember home, or her.
A year ago, Leora might have run after him with an extra sandwich, a jacket, or — if she was honest — a lecture. Today, she stayed rooted to the ground, swallowing the ache that rose up like the tide. "They grow like saplings," her husband Eli had said once, his voice thick with wonder and sorrow. "Hashem gives them to us. But they belong to Him first."
Still, it was her heart Avi carried with him, tucked unnoticed into his heavy backpack.
The golden sun streamed between the olive trees, dappling the garden with shifting light. In the shadows at her feet, she noticed something: a tiny almond seedling had pushed its way through a crack in the stones. She bent low, fingers brushing the small green leaves trembling in the breeze. It seemed impossible — no soil, no watering, no planning — and yet here life was, stubborn and beautiful.
Leora sat back on her heels, tears burning unexpectedly at the corner of her eyes.
Maybe raising Avi had always been like this. Planting seeds, yes — but not because she could force them to grow exactly as she wished. She had taught, sung, prayed, repeated the words of Torah when he lay down and when he rose — but the life, the blooming, was between him and Hashem. Not hers to control. Only hers to love.
A memory rose — her father laughing on a warm afternoon, showing her a young fig sapling they'd planted together in the courtyard, saying, "We plant, we guard. But real growth? That's in G-d’s hands."
A sudden rustle broke her reverie. From the corner of the path, Avi reappeared, jogging back, cheeks flushed. He held something small in his hand.
"Mama!" he called, a little out of breath. "I forgot... look!" He placed a smooth, river-worn stone in her palm. Someone had painted it with a tiny Star of David, and beneath it, in careful print, the word Emunah — faith.
"I found it by the park," he said grinning. "Thought you'd like it."
Leora closed her fingers around the stone, feeling the warmth he'd left on its surface. The tightness in her chest loosened into something gentler, and she laughed — a sound surprisingly full of light.
"I love it," she said, standing and pulling him into a quick hug he almost pretended not to return. Almost.
Later, as the sky turned lilac-backed, Leora sat by the window and turned the stone over and over in her hand. Trusting G-d to hold what she loved most didn’t mean letting go of Avi. It meant daring to believe that the same G-d who crafted stars and seedling and soul also watched over a boy in sneakers running toward the edge of the town — and beyond her reach.
"My child is Yours," she whispered into the soft hush of twilight. "Thank You for holding him when I cannot."
And for the first time in many months, her heart rested lightly in her chest — full of faith, full of peace.
—
Supporting Torah and Tanakh Verses:
Leora stood on the uneven flagstones of her garden, her arms crossed tightly across her chest, staring at the path just beyond the low stone wall. Her son, Avi, fourteen and brimming with restless energy, vanished around the corner, knapsack swinging carelessly. Yet again, he'd gone without a word of ‘goodbye’ — too excited for life, too hurried for a mother’s warnings or reminders. A breeze tugged at her scarf, and she could feel herself unraveling with it.
She had raised him tethered to Torah, cradled in bedtime Shema prayers, blanketed in Shabbat songs. But now Avi was pulling away — toward new streets and big ideas that didn't always remember home, or her.
A year ago, Leora might have run after him with an extra sandwich, a jacket, or — if she was honest — a lecture. Today, she stayed rooted to the ground, swallowing the ache that rose up like the tide. "They grow like saplings," her husband Eli had said once, his voice thick with wonder and sorrow. "Hashem gives them to us. But they belong to Him first."
Still, it was her heart Avi carried with him, tucked unnoticed into his heavy backpack.
The golden sun streamed between the olive trees, dappling the garden with shifting light. In the shadows at her feet, she noticed something: a tiny almond seedling had pushed its way through a crack in the stones. She bent low, fingers brushing the small green leaves trembling in the breeze. It seemed impossible — no soil, no watering, no planning — and yet here life was, stubborn and beautiful.
Leora sat back on her heels, tears burning unexpectedly at the corner of her eyes.
Maybe raising Avi had always been like this. Planting seeds, yes — but not because she could force them to grow exactly as she wished. She had taught, sung, prayed, repeated the words of Torah when he lay down and when he rose — but the life, the blooming, was between him and Hashem. Not hers to control. Only hers to love.
A memory rose — her father laughing on a warm afternoon, showing her a young fig sapling they'd planted together in the courtyard, saying, "We plant, we guard. But real growth? That's in G-d’s hands."
A sudden rustle broke her reverie. From the corner of the path, Avi reappeared, jogging back, cheeks flushed. He held something small in his hand.
"Mama!" he called, a little out of breath. "I forgot... look!" He placed a smooth, river-worn stone in her palm. Someone had painted it with a tiny Star of David, and beneath it, in careful print, the word Emunah — faith.
"I found it by the park," he said grinning. "Thought you'd like it."
Leora closed her fingers around the stone, feeling the warmth he'd left on its surface. The tightness in her chest loosened into something gentler, and she laughed — a sound surprisingly full of light.
"I love it," she said, standing and pulling him into a quick hug he almost pretended not to return. Almost.
Later, as the sky turned lilac-backed, Leora sat by the window and turned the stone over and over in her hand. Trusting G-d to hold what she loved most didn’t mean letting go of Avi. It meant daring to believe that the same G-d who crafted stars and seedling and soul also watched over a boy in sneakers running toward the edge of the town — and beyond her reach.
"My child is Yours," she whispered into the soft hush of twilight. "Thank You for holding him when I cannot."
And for the first time in many months, her heart rested lightly in her chest — full of faith, full of peace.
—
Supporting Torah and Tanakh Verses:
