The cool breeze of early morning stirred Ruth’s hair as she sat on the crumbling stone wall behind her old childhood home. Her hands, calloused from years of work, trembled in her lap, and she hated herself for it. Fear, thick and relentless, curled around her heart.
It was too late, the voice inside her insisted. Too late to start over. Too late to heal old wounds. Too late to be anything other than a failure, washed back onto these dirt roads in silent defeat.
She brushed a tear away angrily. "Enough," she whispered to no one.
The sun crept higher, laying pale gold over the fields her mother used to walk through, singing psalms under her breath. Ruth closed her eyes and tried to remember the melodies, but only broken pieces floated up, tangled with sorrow.
Her phone buzzed against her leg — another message she couldn't bear to read yet. So many people she had pushed away, too ashamed of where her life had faltered. Too tired from the fight she didn’t know how to win.
A small movement caught her eye — a boy, maybe seven or eight, wobbling down the road on a bicycle much too large for him. He pedaled furiously, his backpack thumping awkwardly against his back. Just as he passed the wall where Ruth sat, he tilted too far and toppled, landing in the dusty road with a cry.
Instinct overruled despair. Ruth jumped down and hurried to him. "Hey, hey, you're okay," she said, crouching beside him.
He sniffled, eyes wide with that sharp mix of hurt and embarrassment. "I'm not good at it," he muttered into his sleeve.
Ruth smiled, despite herself. "Neither was I when I started."
He looked up at her with something like wonder. "Really?"
"Really," she said. "I fell a hundred times. But you know what my father told me?" She paused, feeling the words rise from some long-quiet place. "'Be strong and courageous. Don't be afraid. G-d is with you wherever you go.'"
The boy blinked at her. Then, with surprising fierceness, he stood, dusted off his scabbed knees, and climbed back on the bike. He wobbled and nearly fell — and then righted himself and rode on, a little straighter, a little surer.
Ruth watched him go, something breaking loose inside her — a stone shifted, and beneath it, hope glimmered. If a boy could get back up after falling, could she not do the same? Could she choose to believe that fear was lying — that it wasn't too late?
The sky above was impossibly wide, clotted with soft clouds. The breeze carried the scent of summer grass and warm earth, and with it, a whisper to her heart: "Fear not, for I am with you."
The words filled her, then spilled over. She laughed — a bright sound she hadn't heard from herself in months.
She pulled out her phone and opened the unread messages. One from her sister. Another from an old friend. Invitations, olive branches she hadn't dared accept. Until now.
Ruth stood and brushed the dust from her jeans. There was a road before her, still dusty, still long — but it waited, open and full of unknown goodness.
As she walked back toward the house, the morning light caught in the wildflowers by the path, tiny blossoms clinging stubbornly to cracks in the rock. Somehow, they had grown there. Somehow, they had bloomed.
And so would she.
—
Supporting Torah and Tanakh Verses:
The cool breeze of early morning stirred Ruth’s hair as she sat on the crumbling stone wall behind her old childhood home. Her hands, calloused from years of work, trembled in her lap, and she hated herself for it. Fear, thick and relentless, curled around her heart.
It was too late, the voice inside her insisted. Too late to start over. Too late to heal old wounds. Too late to be anything other than a failure, washed back onto these dirt roads in silent defeat.
She brushed a tear away angrily. "Enough," she whispered to no one.
The sun crept higher, laying pale gold over the fields her mother used to walk through, singing psalms under her breath. Ruth closed her eyes and tried to remember the melodies, but only broken pieces floated up, tangled with sorrow.
Her phone buzzed against her leg — another message she couldn't bear to read yet. So many people she had pushed away, too ashamed of where her life had faltered. Too tired from the fight she didn’t know how to win.
A small movement caught her eye — a boy, maybe seven or eight, wobbling down the road on a bicycle much too large for him. He pedaled furiously, his backpack thumping awkwardly against his back. Just as he passed the wall where Ruth sat, he tilted too far and toppled, landing in the dusty road with a cry.
Instinct overruled despair. Ruth jumped down and hurried to him. "Hey, hey, you're okay," she said, crouching beside him.
He sniffled, eyes wide with that sharp mix of hurt and embarrassment. "I'm not good at it," he muttered into his sleeve.
Ruth smiled, despite herself. "Neither was I when I started."
He looked up at her with something like wonder. "Really?"
"Really," she said. "I fell a hundred times. But you know what my father told me?" She paused, feeling the words rise from some long-quiet place. "'Be strong and courageous. Don't be afraid. G-d is with you wherever you go.'"
The boy blinked at her. Then, with surprising fierceness, he stood, dusted off his scabbed knees, and climbed back on the bike. He wobbled and nearly fell — and then righted himself and rode on, a little straighter, a little surer.
Ruth watched him go, something breaking loose inside her — a stone shifted, and beneath it, hope glimmered. If a boy could get back up after falling, could she not do the same? Could she choose to believe that fear was lying — that it wasn't too late?
The sky above was impossibly wide, clotted with soft clouds. The breeze carried the scent of summer grass and warm earth, and with it, a whisper to her heart: "Fear not, for I am with you."
The words filled her, then spilled over. She laughed — a bright sound she hadn't heard from herself in months.
She pulled out her phone and opened the unread messages. One from her sister. Another from an old friend. Invitations, olive branches she hadn't dared accept. Until now.
Ruth stood and brushed the dust from her jeans. There was a road before her, still dusty, still long — but it waited, open and full of unknown goodness.
As she walked back toward the house, the morning light caught in the wildflowers by the path, tiny blossoms clinging stubbornly to cracks in the rock. Somehow, they had grown there. Somehow, they had bloomed.
And so would she.
—
Supporting Torah and Tanakh Verses:
