Mira gripped the railing of the hospital stairwell with trembling hands. The air felt thick, like she couldn't pull in enough to breathe. Her son, Yonah, was two floors above her, hooked up to machines that beeped and blinked ominously. She had sat beside him for hours, but when the doctor’s face changed — that tight, careful expression — fear clamped down so hard she found herself bolting into the stairwell like a fugitive.
What if the treatments failed? What if Yonah never bounced back, never ran barefoot through their kitchen again, shrieking with laughter? The thoughts gnawed at her, cruel and quick, until her knees buckled and she collapsed onto the cold concrete stairs.
"I can't do this," she whispered, the words wet with tears. "I can't. I'm not strong enough. Please, G-d. Please."
She pressed her forehead against the rough wall. A humming silence settled around her—but then, somewhere in the quiet, a memory unfolded. She could almost hear her father’s voice, reading softly by her childhood bed: "Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous. Do not be terrified or dismayed, for the Lord your G-d is with you wherever you go." Joshua 1:9.
The memory wrapped around her, tender and insistent, like the oversized quilt her father used to tuck around her shoulders. Mira sobbed, the deep kind of soul-cry that leaves you gasping—and when it ebbed, she realized something astonishing.
She wasn’t alone.
G-d was in this stairwell. G-d was on the hospital floor above her, sitting beside Yonah’s small, sleeping body. Fear wasn't the only voice speaking; there was another Voice, quieter but steadier, whispering courage into the cracks of her breaking heart.
Mira drew a long, shaking breath. She wiped her face with the sleeve of her sweater. Not perfect or graceful, but enough.
She pushed herself upright and climbed the stairs back toward Yonah’s room. As she neared the glass door, she froze.
Inside, Yonah’s hand — that tiny, precious hand — was moving, reaching blindly for something. The nurse hurried to his side, adjusting him, and suddenly, his eyes fluttered open, searching the room.
He was looking for her.
Mira smiled through fresh tears and opened the door. She slid into the chair by his bed and took his reaching hand into hers.
"I’m here, sweetheart," she whispered. "I’m not going anywhere."
In the space between beeps and sighs of machines, in the sterile scent of antiseptic and the scratch of hospital sheets, something holy blossomed — small, real, and unshakable. A moment of wonder. G-d's presence, quiet but fiercely near.
Fear had screamed at her to give up. But love — and G-d’s silent promise — helped her stay.
Hours later, as Yonah dozed and the pinks and purples of early morning softened the window glass, Mira sat watching the slow spill of light into the room. A verse surfaced again, unbidden but clear: "Whenever I am afraid, I will trust in You." Psalm 56:3.
She smiled, not because the fear had disappeared, but because courage had found her anyway.
—
Torah/Tanakh Verses Supporting the Story:
Mira gripped the railing of the hospital stairwell with trembling hands. The air felt thick, like she couldn't pull in enough to breathe. Her son, Yonah, was two floors above her, hooked up to machines that beeped and blinked ominously. She had sat beside him for hours, but when the doctor’s face changed — that tight, careful expression — fear clamped down so hard she found herself bolting into the stairwell like a fugitive.
What if the treatments failed? What if Yonah never bounced back, never ran barefoot through their kitchen again, shrieking with laughter? The thoughts gnawed at her, cruel and quick, until her knees buckled and she collapsed onto the cold concrete stairs.
"I can't do this," she whispered, the words wet with tears. "I can't. I'm not strong enough. Please, G-d. Please."
She pressed her forehead against the rough wall. A humming silence settled around her—but then, somewhere in the quiet, a memory unfolded. She could almost hear her father’s voice, reading softly by her childhood bed: "Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous. Do not be terrified or dismayed, for the Lord your G-d is with you wherever you go." Joshua 1:9.
The memory wrapped around her, tender and insistent, like the oversized quilt her father used to tuck around her shoulders. Mira sobbed, the deep kind of soul-cry that leaves you gasping—and when it ebbed, she realized something astonishing.
She wasn’t alone.
G-d was in this stairwell. G-d was on the hospital floor above her, sitting beside Yonah’s small, sleeping body. Fear wasn't the only voice speaking; there was another Voice, quieter but steadier, whispering courage into the cracks of her breaking heart.
Mira drew a long, shaking breath. She wiped her face with the sleeve of her sweater. Not perfect or graceful, but enough.
She pushed herself upright and climbed the stairs back toward Yonah’s room. As she neared the glass door, she froze.
Inside, Yonah’s hand — that tiny, precious hand — was moving, reaching blindly for something. The nurse hurried to his side, adjusting him, and suddenly, his eyes fluttered open, searching the room.
He was looking for her.
Mira smiled through fresh tears and opened the door. She slid into the chair by his bed and took his reaching hand into hers.
"I’m here, sweetheart," she whispered. "I’m not going anywhere."
In the space between beeps and sighs of machines, in the sterile scent of antiseptic and the scratch of hospital sheets, something holy blossomed — small, real, and unshakable. A moment of wonder. G-d's presence, quiet but fiercely near.
Fear had screamed at her to give up. But love — and G-d’s silent promise — helped her stay.
Hours later, as Yonah dozed and the pinks and purples of early morning softened the window glass, Mira sat watching the slow spill of light into the room. A verse surfaced again, unbidden but clear: "Whenever I am afraid, I will trust in You." Psalm 56:3.
She smiled, not because the fear had disappeared, but because courage had found her anyway.
—
Torah/Tanakh Verses Supporting the Story:
