The rain had been falling for days, soft at first, then relentless, beating against Yael’s small windows in a steady drumming that seemed to echo inside her chest. She sat curled against the couch’s armrest, her phone on the table in front of her—the email still open, the words swimming before her eyes.
“We regret to inform you…”
It didn't matter what came after. Everything she had built her hopes upon—gone. Training for two years, dreaming even longer, countless prayers whispered into the darkness—all of it had culminated in this single rejection. What was the point of trusting in G-d when every door slammed shut?
There were no tears—too numb for that. Only the heavy awareness of being utterly, achingly lost.
Somewhere outside, in the grey afternoon, a sudden break in the storm caught her attention. Yael turned her head listlessly toward the window. A shaft of sunlight pierced the angry clouds, illuminating the street like a blessing poured through a crack. The puddles shone gold, and leaves tossed their jewel-green heads in the gusting wind.
Yael pressed her forehead to the cool glass. She remembered something, a faint echo from years ago—her father lifting her onto his shoulders during a summer flood, laughing as rainwater swirled around them.
“Trust, motek,” he had said, pointing to the sky. “Even when it looks like there’s no way through. Hashem always makes a path.”
The memory stung. He had said it so simply—as sure as breathing. But here she was, all grown up, and it didn’t feel that simple now. Trust wasn’t a buoy carrying her forward; it was a brittle thing, frayed at the edges.
Yael slid down to sit on the floor, knees drawn to her chest. She closed her eyes. Somewhere deep inside, anger and sorrow twisted together.
Where are You? she thought—not in bitterness, just desperate honesty. If You expect me to trust You, I need You to meet me here, in this breaking place.
Silence answered—but not coldly. It felt deep, almost tender. Like the quiet space before dawn, vast and patient and breathing.
Into the stillness, without warning, a verse surfaced, as if rising from deep water:
“Trust in Hashem with all your heart, and do not rely on your own understanding…”
She hadn’t thought of those words in years, yet here they were, threading themselves into her shivering soul.
Yael exhaled, a shaky, almost-laugh escaping her lips. Maybe trust wasn’t something she had to force. Maybe it was something she could fall into, the way a child falls into their father’s arms—not because they know exactly where they’ll land, but because they know who’s catching them.
She opened her eyes again. A little boy in a bright yellow raincoat stood outside across the street, grinning as he balanced a battered paper boat in a rushing puddle. It tumbled forward, battered and half-sinking, then righted itself and sailed on.
Something in Yael’s chest gave way, a small crumbling of defenses.
Maybe the voyage didn’t have to be steady or graceful.
Maybe all she needed was to keep setting her little paper hopes afloat—believing that even when she couldn’t see it, the current was in G-d’s hands.
Yael rose and wrapped herself in her wool cardigan. She opened the window a crack, breathing in the sharp, rain-sweet air.
It was still messy; the uncertainty still towered around her like unfamiliar mountains. But quietly, stubbornly, a thread of courage wove itself through her heart.
Wait for Hashem, the psalm whispered in her memory. Let your heart be strong.
And she would.
Not because she could predict the ending—but because the journey itself was holy, held in Infinite Hands.
Yael wiped the remnants of tears from her cheeks and cracked a smile.
She would gather all her fragile little dreams and send them forward, one by one, onto the currents of His kindness.
Somewhere out there, sunlight waited.
And she would not be alone.
—
Scriptural Blessings:
The rain had been falling for days, soft at first, then relentless, beating against Yael’s small windows in a steady drumming that seemed to echo inside her chest. She sat curled against the couch’s armrest, her phone on the table in front of her—the email still open, the words swimming before her eyes.
“We regret to inform you…”
It didn't matter what came after. Everything she had built her hopes upon—gone. Training for two years, dreaming even longer, countless prayers whispered into the darkness—all of it had culminated in this single rejection. What was the point of trusting in G-d when every door slammed shut?
There were no tears—too numb for that. Only the heavy awareness of being utterly, achingly lost.
Somewhere outside, in the grey afternoon, a sudden break in the storm caught her attention. Yael turned her head listlessly toward the window. A shaft of sunlight pierced the angry clouds, illuminating the street like a blessing poured through a crack. The puddles shone gold, and leaves tossed their jewel-green heads in the gusting wind.
Yael pressed her forehead to the cool glass. She remembered something, a faint echo from years ago—her father lifting her onto his shoulders during a summer flood, laughing as rainwater swirled around them.
“Trust, motek,” he had said, pointing to the sky. “Even when it looks like there’s no way through. Hashem always makes a path.”
The memory stung. He had said it so simply—as sure as breathing. But here she was, all grown up, and it didn’t feel that simple now. Trust wasn’t a buoy carrying her forward; it was a brittle thing, frayed at the edges.
Yael slid down to sit on the floor, knees drawn to her chest. She closed her eyes. Somewhere deep inside, anger and sorrow twisted together.
Where are You? she thought—not in bitterness, just desperate honesty. If You expect me to trust You, I need You to meet me here, in this breaking place.
Silence answered—but not coldly. It felt deep, almost tender. Like the quiet space before dawn, vast and patient and breathing.
Into the stillness, without warning, a verse surfaced, as if rising from deep water:
“Trust in Hashem with all your heart, and do not rely on your own understanding…”
She hadn’t thought of those words in years, yet here they were, threading themselves into her shivering soul.
Yael exhaled, a shaky, almost-laugh escaping her lips. Maybe trust wasn’t something she had to force. Maybe it was something she could fall into, the way a child falls into their father’s arms—not because they know exactly where they’ll land, but because they know who’s catching them.
She opened her eyes again. A little boy in a bright yellow raincoat stood outside across the street, grinning as he balanced a battered paper boat in a rushing puddle. It tumbled forward, battered and half-sinking, then righted itself and sailed on.
Something in Yael’s chest gave way, a small crumbling of defenses.
Maybe the voyage didn’t have to be steady or graceful.
Maybe all she needed was to keep setting her little paper hopes afloat—believing that even when she couldn’t see it, the current was in G-d’s hands.
Yael rose and wrapped herself in her wool cardigan. She opened the window a crack, breathing in the sharp, rain-sweet air.
It was still messy; the uncertainty still towered around her like unfamiliar mountains. But quietly, stubbornly, a thread of courage wove itself through her heart.
Wait for Hashem, the psalm whispered in her memory. Let your heart be strong.
And she would.
Not because she could predict the ending—but because the journey itself was holy, held in Infinite Hands.
Yael wiped the remnants of tears from her cheeks and cracked a smile.
She would gather all her fragile little dreams and send them forward, one by one, onto the currents of His kindness.
Somewhere out there, sunlight waited.
And she would not be alone.
—
Scriptural Blessings:
