The first sign that something wasn’t right was the creeping chill inside Miriam’s chest, sharper and colder than the winter winds outside her tiny Jerusalem apartment. She had always pictured herself as someone strong, someone who believed without borders — but as the job rejections piled up and the rent notices fluttered by the door like mocking birds, doubt slithered into her heart.
"You’re on your own," it whispered.
She wrapped herself tighter in her threadbare shawl, rocking slightly, staring at the cracked ceiling. She whispered prayers she could barely feel, her voice trembling. Was G-d even listening? Or was she speaking into a silence too vast to bridge?
When she was small, her father used to say, “Miri, Hashem holds you like a father holds his child. Tight. Firm. Always.” It had been easy to believe then, sitting on his lap, his tzitzit brushing her tiny hands. But now — now adulthood had sharp edges that faith sometimes slipped through.
She decided to take a walk, needing fresh air more than warmth. Streets bustled even in the freezing dusk: old men huddled over chessboards, shopkeepers shouting prices, boys chasing a ball down the icy stones. She pulled her scarf higher, head down, invisible in the crowd.
At the corner of Emek Refaim and Rachel Imenu, something strange caught her eye — a tiny crocus blooming through a crack in the sidewalk, its purple petals trembling against the night wind.
She stopped, tears stinging suddenly at the sight. How could something so fragile dare to bloom here, pressed between concrete and cold?
A memory stirred — soft, stubborn — of a verse her mother used to sing as she tucked Miriam in bed: “Fear not, for I am with you; be not dismayed, for I am your G-d…” (Isaiah 41:10).
Miriam dropped to a crouch beside the little flower, her palms almost unconsciously reaching toward it, as if the earth itself whispered: You are not abandoned. You are not alone.
She breathed out shakily, her breath swirling in pale smoke. The crocus swayed gently as if nodding back.
A little boy, maybe five, ran up to her. His kippah was askew, and in his mitten-clad hand, he clutched a small, crumpled chocolate coin.
“For you,” he said solemnly, thrusting the shiny gelt toward her.
Miriam blinked. “For me?”
He nodded. “Abba says we should share simcha. You look like you need some happy.”
Before she could speak, he grinned and darted back toward his waiting father.
The foil of the chocolate caught the last rays of the dying sun, flashing a tiny golden light into Miriam’s eyes.
A laugh bubbled up from deep inside her — rusty and reluctant at first — but real. She stood, cradling the silly little chocolate like it was treasure. The ache in her chest hadn’t disappeared, but under the weight of doubt, something had broken open. Not in despair, but in hope.
"I am not alone," she whispered, the words a vow.
The mustard seed of faith stirred, tiny but alive, curling through the cracks in her weary heart like the crocus fighting its way to the light.
The walk home felt lighter, as if unseen hands walked beside her, steadying her every step.
And though the cold still bit through her sleeves, Miriam knew, utterly and finally, that she was being held.
—
Verses for Reflection:
The first sign that something wasn’t right was the creeping chill inside Miriam’s chest, sharper and colder than the winter winds outside her tiny Jerusalem apartment. She had always pictured herself as someone strong, someone who believed without borders — but as the job rejections piled up and the rent notices fluttered by the door like mocking birds, doubt slithered into her heart.
"You’re on your own," it whispered.
She wrapped herself tighter in her threadbare shawl, rocking slightly, staring at the cracked ceiling. She whispered prayers she could barely feel, her voice trembling. Was G-d even listening? Or was she speaking into a silence too vast to bridge?
When she was small, her father used to say, “Miri, Hashem holds you like a father holds his child. Tight. Firm. Always.” It had been easy to believe then, sitting on his lap, his tzitzit brushing her tiny hands. But now — now adulthood had sharp edges that faith sometimes slipped through.
She decided to take a walk, needing fresh air more than warmth. Streets bustled even in the freezing dusk: old men huddled over chessboards, shopkeepers shouting prices, boys chasing a ball down the icy stones. She pulled her scarf higher, head down, invisible in the crowd.
At the corner of Emek Refaim and Rachel Imenu, something strange caught her eye — a tiny crocus blooming through a crack in the sidewalk, its purple petals trembling against the night wind.
She stopped, tears stinging suddenly at the sight. How could something so fragile dare to bloom here, pressed between concrete and cold?
A memory stirred — soft, stubborn — of a verse her mother used to sing as she tucked Miriam in bed: “Fear not, for I am with you; be not dismayed, for I am your G-d…” (Isaiah 41:10).
Miriam dropped to a crouch beside the little flower, her palms almost unconsciously reaching toward it, as if the earth itself whispered: You are not abandoned. You are not alone.
She breathed out shakily, her breath swirling in pale smoke. The crocus swayed gently as if nodding back.
A little boy, maybe five, ran up to her. His kippah was askew, and in his mitten-clad hand, he clutched a small, crumpled chocolate coin.
“For you,” he said solemnly, thrusting the shiny gelt toward her.
Miriam blinked. “For me?”
He nodded. “Abba says we should share simcha. You look like you need some happy.”
Before she could speak, he grinned and darted back toward his waiting father.
The foil of the chocolate caught the last rays of the dying sun, flashing a tiny golden light into Miriam’s eyes.
A laugh bubbled up from deep inside her — rusty and reluctant at first — but real. She stood, cradling the silly little chocolate like it was treasure. The ache in her chest hadn’t disappeared, but under the weight of doubt, something had broken open. Not in despair, but in hope.
"I am not alone," she whispered, the words a vow.
The mustard seed of faith stirred, tiny but alive, curling through the cracks in her weary heart like the crocus fighting its way to the light.
The walk home felt lighter, as if unseen hands walked beside her, steadying her every step.
And though the cold still bit through her sleeves, Miriam knew, utterly and finally, that she was being held.
—
Verses for Reflection:
