The wind pressed against Talia’s coat as she trudged up the narrow hillside path, her boots slipping slightly in the soft, damp earth. She hugged her arms around herself, though the chill in her chest had nothing to do with the weather. Somewhere behind her lay the town—its flickering lights, its soft prayers—and still, she felt more adrift than anchored.
Why does G-d feel so far away? she thought, bitterness sharp behind her throat like unshed tears. She had prayed, she had begged. But all she heard was silence.
At the crest of the hill, she stopped. Before her stretched a great open field, dotted with wildflowers barely awake to the early spring. Beneath the growing dusk, the tiny blossoms seemed to bow their heads—fragile, unnoticed, enduring.
Talia dropped onto the damp grass, too tired to care. She stared at the sky, where the first shy stars began glinting through the fading blue. Around her, the world breathed: a rustle of grass, a distant owl's cry. But inside her was a numb aching silence.
She closed her eyes tightly. "Are You there, Hashem?" she whispered, so soft it nearly disappeared in the wind. "Or am I just talking to the air?"
Memories stirred. Her father’s voice, calm and sure, telling her as a child by candlelight: “Even when you don’t feel Him, He holds your hand.” The words had comforted her once. Now they felt like a story for someone else.
She opened her eyes again—and it was then she noticed it.
A small yellow flower, bright against the damp, gray earth. It pushed upward bravely, its petals trembling in the breeze.
Talia leaned closer. Its stem was bent, half-buried by a heavy splatter of mud—and yet, the flower stood.
Something uncurled in her heart, aching and raw. She thought of that flower, fighting its way up through mud and cold winds, unseen, uncelebrated—and still bravely open toward the sky.
Maybe, she thought slowly, trust isn't about feeling sure.
Maybe trust is about growing anyway. Reaching anyway. Loving anyway.
A verse surfaced in her heart, unbidden: "For I, the Lord your G-d, hold your right hand. It is I who say to you: Fear not, I am the one who helps you." (Isaiah 41:13)
Hot tears spilled down her cheeks, blurring the tiny stubborn blossom before her. She didn't feel G-d's hand. But maybe—just maybe—He was still holding hers.
Talia drew a trembling breath. She stayed there for a long while, watching the night deepen, the stars scatter wider across the sky like a thousand tiny promises.
When at last she stood to leave, her heart was still tender, wounded—but no longer empty. She brushed her fingers against the little yellow flower in a silent prayer of thanks.
She didn’t feel any sudden divine voice. She didn’t feel magically mended.
But one thing had changed.
She knew she wasn’t truly alone.
And tonight, that was enough to take the next step down the hill—into the dim path, into the waiting town, into a life where G-d's nearness was not proven by feelings but by the quiet, miraculous courage to keep walking.
—
Torah and Tanakh Verses:
The wind pressed against Talia’s coat as she trudged up the narrow hillside path, her boots slipping slightly in the soft, damp earth. She hugged her arms around herself, though the chill in her chest had nothing to do with the weather. Somewhere behind her lay the town—its flickering lights, its soft prayers—and still, she felt more adrift than anchored.
Why does G-d feel so far away? she thought, bitterness sharp behind her throat like unshed tears. She had prayed, she had begged. But all she heard was silence.
At the crest of the hill, she stopped. Before her stretched a great open field, dotted with wildflowers barely awake to the early spring. Beneath the growing dusk, the tiny blossoms seemed to bow their heads—fragile, unnoticed, enduring.
Talia dropped onto the damp grass, too tired to care. She stared at the sky, where the first shy stars began glinting through the fading blue. Around her, the world breathed: a rustle of grass, a distant owl's cry. But inside her was a numb aching silence.
She closed her eyes tightly. "Are You there, Hashem?" she whispered, so soft it nearly disappeared in the wind. "Or am I just talking to the air?"
Memories stirred. Her father’s voice, calm and sure, telling her as a child by candlelight: “Even when you don’t feel Him, He holds your hand.” The words had comforted her once. Now they felt like a story for someone else.
She opened her eyes again—and it was then she noticed it.
A small yellow flower, bright against the damp, gray earth. It pushed upward bravely, its petals trembling in the breeze.
Talia leaned closer. Its stem was bent, half-buried by a heavy splatter of mud—and yet, the flower stood.
Something uncurled in her heart, aching and raw. She thought of that flower, fighting its way up through mud and cold winds, unseen, uncelebrated—and still bravely open toward the sky.
Maybe, she thought slowly, trust isn't about feeling sure.
Maybe trust is about growing anyway. Reaching anyway. Loving anyway.
A verse surfaced in her heart, unbidden: "For I, the Lord your G-d, hold your right hand. It is I who say to you: Fear not, I am the one who helps you." (Isaiah 41:13)
Hot tears spilled down her cheeks, blurring the tiny stubborn blossom before her. She didn't feel G-d's hand. But maybe—just maybe—He was still holding hers.
Talia drew a trembling breath. She stayed there for a long while, watching the night deepen, the stars scatter wider across the sky like a thousand tiny promises.
When at last she stood to leave, her heart was still tender, wounded—but no longer empty. She brushed her fingers against the little yellow flower in a silent prayer of thanks.
She didn’t feel any sudden divine voice. She didn’t feel magically mended.
But one thing had changed.
She knew she wasn’t truly alone.
And tonight, that was enough to take the next step down the hill—into the dim path, into the waiting town, into a life where G-d's nearness was not proven by feelings but by the quiet, miraculous courage to keep walking.
—
Torah and Tanakh Verses:
