Talia almost couldn't feel the ground under her feet anymore. It had been too many months — months of whispered prayers at dawn, of carefully tucking dreams deep inside her so they wouldn’t crack and shatter with every passing day. She tied her scarf a little tighter against the biting autumn wind, staring out over the empty vineyard her grandfather had once tended until it sang with life.
They had hoped to revive it. She and Ezra, full of young faith and optimism, had planted the first vines two years ago, dreaming of grapes so sweet it would taste like G-d Himself wove the flavor. But storms came early that year, flooding the tiny shoots. Last summer's drought burnt what little hope had survived. Talia had begun to wonder if they had been foolish — if all the whispered promises of blessing were only for others, not for her.
She took slow steps down the worn path between the crooked rows, boots crunching against brittle leaves. In her heart, a silent ache throbbed: "You said You would be good to those who hope in You. But how long, G-d? How long?"
She knelt beside a gnarled vine half-buried in dust, her fingers trailing over its dry, twisted stem. "Maybe it was never meant for me," she whispered, hardly daring to say it aloud.
The wind shifted — soft, almost warm — and suddenly, without plan or grand announcement, a faint memory rose unbidden: her grandfather's voice laughing over the crackling firepit, saying, “Talia'le, G-d’s promises don’t wither. They ripen slowly, like grapes in the sun. Delay isn’t denial — it’s just... not yet.”
Her heart gave a tiny leap.
She blinked away sudden tears and leaned closer to the vine as if it might whisper the rest. And there — almost invisible against the withered wood — a slip of green.
It was a small thing. A ridiculous, stubborn little shoot no longer than her pinky, curling towards the pale afternoon light.
Talia drew in a breath so deep it hurt, the cold air burning her lungs. A laugh bubbled up and escaped her lips, the sound strange and hopeful in the empty rows. She touched the baby shoot with reverent fingers, as though it were a message handwritten just for her.
It wasn’t over.
Her dreams had not died — they had only hidden beneath the earth, waiting for the right season, the right rain, a purpose she could not yet see.
She pressed her hands together, warmed by the unseen flame of gratitude sparking to life inside her. Maybe she didn’t have to understand everything. Maybe trusting G-d's timing wasn’t about pretending she wasn't disappointed, but about believing that even disappointment could be harvested into something good.
Even here. Even now.
As twilight slipped a lavender hush over the hills, Talia rose to her feet. She wound her arms around herself, not to shield against the cold anymore, but almost as if holding close the new, fragile hope taking root deep inside her.
G-d had not forgotten.
She wasn’t alone.
One step after another, she moved back through the vineyard with a steadier heart, whispering into the dusk, “I’ll wait. I’ll trust You. Even when I can’t see it — You are still working."
—
Torah and Tanakh Verses Supporting the Story:
Talia almost couldn't feel the ground under her feet anymore. It had been too many months — months of whispered prayers at dawn, of carefully tucking dreams deep inside her so they wouldn’t crack and shatter with every passing day. She tied her scarf a little tighter against the biting autumn wind, staring out over the empty vineyard her grandfather had once tended until it sang with life.
They had hoped to revive it. She and Ezra, full of young faith and optimism, had planted the first vines two years ago, dreaming of grapes so sweet it would taste like G-d Himself wove the flavor. But storms came early that year, flooding the tiny shoots. Last summer's drought burnt what little hope had survived. Talia had begun to wonder if they had been foolish — if all the whispered promises of blessing were only for others, not for her.
She took slow steps down the worn path between the crooked rows, boots crunching against brittle leaves. In her heart, a silent ache throbbed: "You said You would be good to those who hope in You. But how long, G-d? How long?"
She knelt beside a gnarled vine half-buried in dust, her fingers trailing over its dry, twisted stem. "Maybe it was never meant for me," she whispered, hardly daring to say it aloud.
The wind shifted — soft, almost warm — and suddenly, without plan or grand announcement, a faint memory rose unbidden: her grandfather's voice laughing over the crackling firepit, saying, “Talia'le, G-d’s promises don’t wither. They ripen slowly, like grapes in the sun. Delay isn’t denial — it’s just... not yet.”
Her heart gave a tiny leap.
She blinked away sudden tears and leaned closer to the vine as if it might whisper the rest. And there — almost invisible against the withered wood — a slip of green.
It was a small thing. A ridiculous, stubborn little shoot no longer than her pinky, curling towards the pale afternoon light.
Talia drew in a breath so deep it hurt, the cold air burning her lungs. A laugh bubbled up and escaped her lips, the sound strange and hopeful in the empty rows. She touched the baby shoot with reverent fingers, as though it were a message handwritten just for her.
It wasn’t over.
Her dreams had not died — they had only hidden beneath the earth, waiting for the right season, the right rain, a purpose she could not yet see.
She pressed her hands together, warmed by the unseen flame of gratitude sparking to life inside her. Maybe she didn’t have to understand everything. Maybe trusting G-d's timing wasn’t about pretending she wasn't disappointed, but about believing that even disappointment could be harvested into something good.
Even here. Even now.
As twilight slipped a lavender hush over the hills, Talia rose to her feet. She wound her arms around herself, not to shield against the cold anymore, but almost as if holding close the new, fragile hope taking root deep inside her.
G-d had not forgotten.
She wasn’t alone.
One step after another, she moved back through the vineyard with a steadier heart, whispering into the dusk, “I’ll wait. I’ll trust You. Even when I can’t see it — You are still working."
—
Torah and Tanakh Verses Supporting the Story:
