The autumn wind pulled at Miriam’s scarf, tangling it around her shoulders as she stood at the edge of the empty field. The brown furrows sprawled endlessly before her—silent, lifeless. Much like her own heart felt now. Her hands, usually so capable, trembled at her sides.
She hadn't come here in years. After David's death... and then the business folding... it had felt easier to let it all go. Dreams buried alongside him. Friends became memories, and once-vivid hopes faded into the muted ache of surviving.
But this morning, something within her had stirred. Not loudly. Just a small, persistent whisper: Go back. See for yourself.
The earthbound scent of soil filled her lungs as she forced herself to walk forward, boots sinking slightly into the loosened ground. As she walked down the overgrown border, she brushed past dried weeds clinging stubbornly to life. A bitter laugh slipped from her lips. Weeds seemed to have endless energy to start over; why not her?
She stumbled over a hidden patch of ground and landed hard on her knees. Pain shot up through her, sharper than expected. Miriam let herself sit there a moment, hands pressed into the dirt as tears slipped from the corners of her eyes.
"I can't do this," she whispered to no one.
But the stillness didn't answer back with judgment—only the low sigh of the wind, the creak of old trees. G-d was here. In the brokenness. In her collapse. In the soil against her palms.
She didn't notice the tiny green shoot until her tears blurred her vision less. Right there—a thumb-sized sprout pushing up through the crusted earth, defiantly alive.
Miriam stared at it, breath catching painfully in her throat. Somehow, in all this neglect, life had chosen to begin again anyway.
Her mind reached for something—some ancient promise she had learned once by heart, back when belief came easily: "Behold, I am doing a new thing; now it springs forth, do you not perceive it?"
The words unfolded inside her like a blooming flower. Not a command. A promise.
Maybe starting over wasn't about moving mountains. Maybe it was a single green shoot. A trembling first step. A ‘yes’ whispered into empty fields.
She rose carefully, brushing earth from her knees. Tenderly, she cupped the tiny plant between her fingers, marveling at its unlikely tenacity.
Behind her, laughter caught the wind—a distant sound from a nearby farm. Children running, probably chasing leaves or each other, unaware of how their joy softened the worn edges of the world.
She was not as alone as she'd believed.
Miriam looked out across the untended field—her grandparents’ field once. It would take years to reclaim it, if she even could. But maybe she didn't have to know how it would all unfold yet. Maybe she just had to be willing to plant something.
Cradling that hope like a living thing, she turned back toward her truck. Tomorrow, she'd come with gloves, seeds, dreams stitched together with trembling fingers.
It wasn’t too late.
Not when G-d was the One making new things—springing up even in places she thought were long dead.
By the time she drove away, the evening sun had dipped low enough that the field behind her glowed; a burnished, fiery reminder that endings were just beginnings she hadn’t recognized yet.
—
Supporting Torah and Tanakh Verses:
"Forget the former things; do not dwell on the past. See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up; do you not perceive it?"
(A reminder that G-d continually creates new beginnings, even when we feel stuck in the past.)
"Therefore, if anyone is in Messiah, they are a new creation; the old has passed away; behold, the new has come."
(Related teaching: In Judaism, teshuvah (return) offers the soul a path of renewal.)
"The kindnesses of Hashem never cease, for His mercies never end. They are new every morning; great is Your faithfulness."
(Encouragement that G-d's mercy renews daily, making every day a new opportunity.)
"Those who sow in tears will reap with songs of joy. Though they go along weeping, carrying the seed to be sown, they shall come back with joy, bearing their sheaves."
(A beautiful reflection of how faith in planting—literal and spiritual—can yield a joyful harvest.)
"To everything there is a season, and a time for every purpose under heaven."
(A reminder that beginnings, endings, and new starts are part of life's divine rhythm.)
The autumn wind pulled at Miriam’s scarf, tangling it around her shoulders as she stood at the edge of the empty field. The brown furrows sprawled endlessly before her—silent, lifeless. Much like her own heart felt now. Her hands, usually so capable, trembled at her sides.
She hadn't come here in years. After David's death... and then the business folding... it had felt easier to let it all go. Dreams buried alongside him. Friends became memories, and once-vivid hopes faded into the muted ache of surviving.
But this morning, something within her had stirred. Not loudly. Just a small, persistent whisper: Go back. See for yourself.
The earthbound scent of soil filled her lungs as she forced herself to walk forward, boots sinking slightly into the loosened ground. As she walked down the overgrown border, she brushed past dried weeds clinging stubbornly to life. A bitter laugh slipped from her lips. Weeds seemed to have endless energy to start over; why not her?
She stumbled over a hidden patch of ground and landed hard on her knees. Pain shot up through her, sharper than expected. Miriam let herself sit there a moment, hands pressed into the dirt as tears slipped from the corners of her eyes.
"I can't do this," she whispered to no one.
But the stillness didn't answer back with judgment—only the low sigh of the wind, the creak of old trees. G-d was here. In the brokenness. In her collapse. In the soil against her palms.
She didn't notice the tiny green shoot until her tears blurred her vision less. Right there—a thumb-sized sprout pushing up through the crusted earth, defiantly alive.
Miriam stared at it, breath catching painfully in her throat. Somehow, in all this neglect, life had chosen to begin again anyway.
Her mind reached for something—some ancient promise she had learned once by heart, back when belief came easily: "Behold, I am doing a new thing; now it springs forth, do you not perceive it?"
The words unfolded inside her like a blooming flower. Not a command. A promise.
Maybe starting over wasn't about moving mountains. Maybe it was a single green shoot. A trembling first step. A ‘yes’ whispered into empty fields.
She rose carefully, brushing earth from her knees. Tenderly, she cupped the tiny plant between her fingers, marveling at its unlikely tenacity.
Behind her, laughter caught the wind—a distant sound from a nearby farm. Children running, probably chasing leaves or each other, unaware of how their joy softened the worn edges of the world.
She was not as alone as she'd believed.
Miriam looked out across the untended field—her grandparents’ field once. It would take years to reclaim it, if she even could. But maybe she didn't have to know how it would all unfold yet. Maybe she just had to be willing to plant something.
Cradling that hope like a living thing, she turned back toward her truck. Tomorrow, she'd come with gloves, seeds, dreams stitched together with trembling fingers.
It wasn’t too late.
Not when G-d was the One making new things—springing up even in places she thought were long dead.
By the time she drove away, the evening sun had dipped low enough that the field behind her glowed; a burnished, fiery reminder that endings were just beginnings she hadn’t recognized yet.
—
Supporting Torah and Tanakh Verses:
"Forget the former things; do not dwell on the past. See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up; do you not perceive it?"
(A reminder that G-d continually creates new beginnings, even when we feel stuck in the past.)
"Therefore, if anyone is in Messiah, they are a new creation; the old has passed away; behold, the new has come."
(Related teaching: In Judaism, teshuvah (return) offers the soul a path of renewal.)
"The kindnesses of Hashem never cease, for His mercies never end. They are new every morning; great is Your faithfulness."
(Encouragement that G-d's mercy renews daily, making every day a new opportunity.)
"Those who sow in tears will reap with songs of joy. Though they go along weeping, carrying the seed to be sown, they shall come back with joy, bearing their sheaves."
(A beautiful reflection of how faith in planting—literal and spiritual—can yield a joyful harvest.)
"To everything there is a season, and a time for every purpose under heaven."
(A reminder that beginnings, endings, and new starts are part of life's divine rhythm.)
