The waiting became its own ache, quieter than grief but somehow heavier. Every morning, Rivka would boil water for tea, set two cups though she lived alone, and stare out the frost-dusted kitchen window of her little cottage at the edge of Tzfat. The hills rolled out before her like sleeping giants, and the sky was always chasing clouds, swift or slow depending on the season.
She waited—for an answer, for a change, for something unnamed she didn't dare put into words anymore. Years had passed since her last prayer had felt alive on her lips. She whispered them now like old songs whose meaning had drained away.
One morning, after a night where the winds howled like lamentations themselves, Rivka set out for a walk. It was too cold, far too cold, but her body needed to move against the weight pressing against her ribs. She took the cracked footpath that veered off toward the olive groves, scarf tugged high over her chin.
As she trudged up a familiar slope, berating herself for not staying near the fire, a glint of color in the gray landscape caught her eye. She stopped short. There, impossibly, a tiny purple crocus pushed its way through the hard, frozen soil. Small, trembling, its petals folded like shy hands.
Rivka dropped to her knees, the chill forgotten. She reached out, not daring to touch it, only to marvel. "How?" she whispered aloud, the word steaming into the cold air.
How did it bloom where there should be nothing? How had it found the strength where the earth offered only frost?
Tears sprang hot and sudden to her eyes. She bowed her head low, forehead nearly brushing the stone beside the flower, and wept—not for the things she had lost, but for the first stirring she felt inside her — a stirring of hope that had been buried so long she had forgotten its name.
A verse sprang unbidden from deep within her memories, floating up like a leaf on a river: "But those who hope in Hashem will renew their strength; they will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint."
She had waited, yes. She had ached. She had felt abandoned. Yet underneath it all, G-d had been tilling the soil of her soul, silently preparing it for new life.
Rivka touched one hand to her heart and closed her eyes. "I will wait for You," she whispered, the words steadying her like a steadying hand on a stormy boat. "I will wait, because You are good."
The little crocus danced in the breeze, its slender body swaying as if it heard her.
She stayed there for a long time, the sky overhead softening into a bright, pale blue that promised the gentlest of warmth. Eventually, she rose with stiff knees, brushed the dirt from her skirt, and turned back toward home.
This morning, there would still be two cups set on the table. Only now, Rivka no longer wondered whether anyone would fill the second. It was already full—a quiet place for hope, kept warm, kept waiting, and no longer empty.
As she walked, she hummed an old Hebrew song under her breath, a melody she hadn't sung in years, and in that simple music, the loneliness cracked enough to let the light in.
—
Supporting Verses:
The waiting became its own ache, quieter than grief but somehow heavier. Every morning, Rivka would boil water for tea, set two cups though she lived alone, and stare out the frost-dusted kitchen window of her little cottage at the edge of Tzfat. The hills rolled out before her like sleeping giants, and the sky was always chasing clouds, swift or slow depending on the season.
She waited—for an answer, for a change, for something unnamed she didn't dare put into words anymore. Years had passed since her last prayer had felt alive on her lips. She whispered them now like old songs whose meaning had drained away.
One morning, after a night where the winds howled like lamentations themselves, Rivka set out for a walk. It was too cold, far too cold, but her body needed to move against the weight pressing against her ribs. She took the cracked footpath that veered off toward the olive groves, scarf tugged high over her chin.
As she trudged up a familiar slope, berating herself for not staying near the fire, a glint of color in the gray landscape caught her eye. She stopped short. There, impossibly, a tiny purple crocus pushed its way through the hard, frozen soil. Small, trembling, its petals folded like shy hands.
Rivka dropped to her knees, the chill forgotten. She reached out, not daring to touch it, only to marvel. "How?" she whispered aloud, the word steaming into the cold air.
How did it bloom where there should be nothing? How had it found the strength where the earth offered only frost?
Tears sprang hot and sudden to her eyes. She bowed her head low, forehead nearly brushing the stone beside the flower, and wept—not for the things she had lost, but for the first stirring she felt inside her — a stirring of hope that had been buried so long she had forgotten its name.
A verse sprang unbidden from deep within her memories, floating up like a leaf on a river: "But those who hope in Hashem will renew their strength; they will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint."
She had waited, yes. She had ached. She had felt abandoned. Yet underneath it all, G-d had been tilling the soil of her soul, silently preparing it for new life.
Rivka touched one hand to her heart and closed her eyes. "I will wait for You," she whispered, the words steadying her like a steadying hand on a stormy boat. "I will wait, because You are good."
The little crocus danced in the breeze, its slender body swaying as if it heard her.
She stayed there for a long time, the sky overhead softening into a bright, pale blue that promised the gentlest of warmth. Eventually, she rose with stiff knees, brushed the dirt from her skirt, and turned back toward home.
This morning, there would still be two cups set on the table. Only now, Rivka no longer wondered whether anyone would fill the second. It was already full—a quiet place for hope, kept warm, kept waiting, and no longer empty.
As she walked, she hummed an old Hebrew song under her breath, a melody she hadn't sung in years, and in that simple music, the loneliness cracked enough to let the light in.
—
Supporting Verses:
