The first cold wind of winter rattled the empty fig trees outside Dvora’s window. She sat curled on the floor, dust collecting around her skirts, ribs pressing painfully against each other every time she inhaled. Everything she had built, every fragile dream she had stitched together with faith and sweat, had crumbled. The pottery shop was gone — debts swallowing it like the tide pulls away sand. Where once there had been laughter and color, now only silence remained.
She pressed her forehead against the cool stone wall and whispered into the nothingness, “Why, Hashem? I trusted You. I worked so hard. How could You let this happen?”
No answer came, only the relentless ticking of the clock and the distant call of a mourning dove outside.
Days faded into each other. Dvora moved through them like a shadow, her prayers dry and mechanical. She still lit the Shabbat candles out of habit, but even the tiny flames seemed to mock her, dancing over jagged dreams she could no longer name.
One gray afternoon, as the sky smudged with the threat of snow, Dvora trudged back from the market, clutching a small bag of lentils. Her feet found their familiar path past what had once been her shop. The windows were empty now, the door ajar, creaking faintly in the breeze. Instinctively, she stepped inside.
Dust coated the shelves where her hands had once shaped beauty from earth. She wandered through the room, fingers trailing across the worktables, remembering. A snatch of her late father’s voice floated to her: “Dvora’le, even broken pottery can hold blessings. You’ll see.”
A rough sob built in her throat. She leaned against the counter, closing her eyes.
When she opened them again, something bright caught her eye — a small shard of pottery, half-glazed, a swirl of deep blue and gold peeking through the dirt. She bent and picked it up. It was a piece from a vessel she had made months ago, one she had poured her heart into. Somehow, despite everything, a fragment had survived.
Clutching it, she sank to the floor, tears finally spilling free. In the stillness, a sliver of a verse surfaced from somewhere deep within her: “For I know the thoughts that I think toward you, says Hashem, thoughts of peace and not of evil, to give you a future and a hope” (Yirmiyahu 29:11).
The words weren’t loud, not shouted from a mountain, but whispered on the barest breath of her spirit.
Was it possible? Was G-d’s plan bigger than her understanding? Could her shattered dreams be merely the ground for something unseen, growing under the surface?
Outside the broken shop, the first snowflakes began to fall — tiny, defiant stars against the barren earth. Dvora watched them, mesmerized. Even in the dead of winter, beauty insisted on enduring.
She rose slowly, tucking the pottery shard into her pocket. For the first time in weeks, she noticed the scent of woodsmoke in the air, the soft golden light slipping through the clouds. Somewhere, children’s laughter echoed faintly from the next street.
Hope didn’t feel like a bright trumpet call. It felt like this: a broken thing barely warm in her hand, whispering that this was not the end.
When Shabbat came, she lit the candles with trembling fingers. As the flame caught, her heart caught too — not in despair this time, but in something timidly brave. Her dreams might have died, yes. But the G-d who had given her the heart to dream in the first place had not.
She whispered a shaky blessing and watched the reflection of the flames dance in the shard’s glossy surface.
"I will yet thank Him," she said aloud — and, somehow, she meant it.
—
Supporting Torah and Tanakh Verses:
The first cold wind of winter rattled the empty fig trees outside Dvora’s window. She sat curled on the floor, dust collecting around her skirts, ribs pressing painfully against each other every time she inhaled. Everything she had built, every fragile dream she had stitched together with faith and sweat, had crumbled. The pottery shop was gone — debts swallowing it like the tide pulls away sand. Where once there had been laughter and color, now only silence remained.
She pressed her forehead against the cool stone wall and whispered into the nothingness, “Why, Hashem? I trusted You. I worked so hard. How could You let this happen?”
No answer came, only the relentless ticking of the clock and the distant call of a mourning dove outside.
Days faded into each other. Dvora moved through them like a shadow, her prayers dry and mechanical. She still lit the Shabbat candles out of habit, but even the tiny flames seemed to mock her, dancing over jagged dreams she could no longer name.
One gray afternoon, as the sky smudged with the threat of snow, Dvora trudged back from the market, clutching a small bag of lentils. Her feet found their familiar path past what had once been her shop. The windows were empty now, the door ajar, creaking faintly in the breeze. Instinctively, she stepped inside.
Dust coated the shelves where her hands had once shaped beauty from earth. She wandered through the room, fingers trailing across the worktables, remembering. A snatch of her late father’s voice floated to her: “Dvora’le, even broken pottery can hold blessings. You’ll see.”
A rough sob built in her throat. She leaned against the counter, closing her eyes.
When she opened them again, something bright caught her eye — a small shard of pottery, half-glazed, a swirl of deep blue and gold peeking through the dirt. She bent and picked it up. It was a piece from a vessel she had made months ago, one she had poured her heart into. Somehow, despite everything, a fragment had survived.
Clutching it, she sank to the floor, tears finally spilling free. In the stillness, a sliver of a verse surfaced from somewhere deep within her: “For I know the thoughts that I think toward you, says Hashem, thoughts of peace and not of evil, to give you a future and a hope” (Yirmiyahu 29:11).
The words weren’t loud, not shouted from a mountain, but whispered on the barest breath of her spirit.
Was it possible? Was G-d’s plan bigger than her understanding? Could her shattered dreams be merely the ground for something unseen, growing under the surface?
Outside the broken shop, the first snowflakes began to fall — tiny, defiant stars against the barren earth. Dvora watched them, mesmerized. Even in the dead of winter, beauty insisted on enduring.
She rose slowly, tucking the pottery shard into her pocket. For the first time in weeks, she noticed the scent of woodsmoke in the air, the soft golden light slipping through the clouds. Somewhere, children’s laughter echoed faintly from the next street.
Hope didn’t feel like a bright trumpet call. It felt like this: a broken thing barely warm in her hand, whispering that this was not the end.
When Shabbat came, she lit the candles with trembling fingers. As the flame caught, her heart caught too — not in despair this time, but in something timidly brave. Her dreams might have died, yes. But the G-d who had given her the heart to dream in the first place had not.
She whispered a shaky blessing and watched the reflection of the flames dance in the shard’s glossy surface.
"I will yet thank Him," she said aloud — and, somehow, she meant it.
—
Supporting Torah and Tanakh Verses:
