The night Talia’s world cracked open was quieter than she expected. No thunder, no shouting. Just her, sitting on the edge of her bed, clutching her knees to her chest, trying not to choke on the wide, aching silence that filled her apartment. It felt impossible even to whisper a prayer.
Part of her wanted to fight it — the fear, the loss, the unmooring. Another part, brittle and tired, whispered, “Maybe you don't have to understand it today.”
Talia had always been good at planning. She knew how many steps it would take to get from Point A to Point B, to tie the ribbons neatly around every task. But when the job was lost, and the engagement ring was mailed back with a tiny note tucked inside, she realized none of her careful planning mattered. The ground had simply given way.
She had lit a candle before sunset, trying to hold onto some shred of tradition. The flame flickered gently, casting a warm pool of light — the only softness in the cold room.
An old memory rose up — unbidden, unwelcome — of her mother sitting by her as a child, whispering over and over like a song, “Trust in the Holy One with all your heart, sweet girl, and do not rely on your own understanding.” Back then, it had sounded like a fairy-tale spell. Now, it felt like an invitation too big, too terrifying.
How do you trust when everything you built has turned to ash?
Talia pressed her forehead against her knees. “I can’t,” she whispered. “I can’t trust what I can't see.”
In that stillness, a small sound interrupted her spiraling thoughts — a soft tapping at the window. She looked up, frowning. Rain. It had been dry for so long she hadn't believed it would come. But here it was: first just a few drops, then a steady, overwhelming shower pounding the earth.
Talia stood, crossing the room barefoot. She pushed open the window and let the cool night air rush in. The scent of wet earth filled her senses.
The rain didn’t ask her to understand it. It was simply there, a gift she hadn't known she needed — soaking into the ground, reviving brittle roots, promising that unseen life was still stirring below.
Maybe… maybe trust wasn’t about pretending she wasn't hurt. Maybe it wasn't about feeling certain or brave. Maybe trust meant standing there in the dark, arms open, heart cracked wide, simply choosing to believe that G-d was still here, steady as the rain washing the dust from her small, broken life.
Talia let the tears come then, mingling with the rain. She didn't tell herself to stop. She didn’t need to have the answers.
She placed her hands on the windowsill and let the night hold her.
A slight motion caught her eye — across the narrow courtyard, a lamp flickered on in the neighbor’s window. An old woman, solitary and bent over with age, shuffled to her own window. Their eyes met for the briefest moment.
The woman lifted her hand in a slow, deliberate wave.
Talia's breath hitched. A tiny, impossible laugh rose in her throat.
She wasn’t alone.
Even here, even now, in all this darkness, G-d was shelter and strength. Talia stepped back from the window, pulled on a sweater, lit another candle next to the first, their twin lights dancing together.
Choosing trust didn’t make the night less dark. But it made her feel cradled inside of it — like somehow, someway, dawn would still come, and she would be ready to see it.
—
Supporting Torah and Tanakh Verses:
The night Talia’s world cracked open was quieter than she expected. No thunder, no shouting. Just her, sitting on the edge of her bed, clutching her knees to her chest, trying not to choke on the wide, aching silence that filled her apartment. It felt impossible even to whisper a prayer.
Part of her wanted to fight it — the fear, the loss, the unmooring. Another part, brittle and tired, whispered, “Maybe you don't have to understand it today.”
Talia had always been good at planning. She knew how many steps it would take to get from Point A to Point B, to tie the ribbons neatly around every task. But when the job was lost, and the engagement ring was mailed back with a tiny note tucked inside, she realized none of her careful planning mattered. The ground had simply given way.
She had lit a candle before sunset, trying to hold onto some shred of tradition. The flame flickered gently, casting a warm pool of light — the only softness in the cold room.
An old memory rose up — unbidden, unwelcome — of her mother sitting by her as a child, whispering over and over like a song, “Trust in the Holy One with all your heart, sweet girl, and do not rely on your own understanding.” Back then, it had sounded like a fairy-tale spell. Now, it felt like an invitation too big, too terrifying.
How do you trust when everything you built has turned to ash?
Talia pressed her forehead against her knees. “I can’t,” she whispered. “I can’t trust what I can't see.”
In that stillness, a small sound interrupted her spiraling thoughts — a soft tapping at the window. She looked up, frowning. Rain. It had been dry for so long she hadn't believed it would come. But here it was: first just a few drops, then a steady, overwhelming shower pounding the earth.
Talia stood, crossing the room barefoot. She pushed open the window and let the cool night air rush in. The scent of wet earth filled her senses.
The rain didn’t ask her to understand it. It was simply there, a gift she hadn't known she needed — soaking into the ground, reviving brittle roots, promising that unseen life was still stirring below.
Maybe… maybe trust wasn’t about pretending she wasn't hurt. Maybe it wasn't about feeling certain or brave. Maybe trust meant standing there in the dark, arms open, heart cracked wide, simply choosing to believe that G-d was still here, steady as the rain washing the dust from her small, broken life.
Talia let the tears come then, mingling with the rain. She didn't tell herself to stop. She didn’t need to have the answers.
She placed her hands on the windowsill and let the night hold her.
A slight motion caught her eye — across the narrow courtyard, a lamp flickered on in the neighbor’s window. An old woman, solitary and bent over with age, shuffled to her own window. Their eyes met for the briefest moment.
The woman lifted her hand in a slow, deliberate wave.
Talia's breath hitched. A tiny, impossible laugh rose in her throat.
She wasn’t alone.
Even here, even now, in all this darkness, G-d was shelter and strength. Talia stepped back from the window, pulled on a sweater, lit another candle next to the first, their twin lights dancing together.
Choosing trust didn’t make the night less dark. But it made her feel cradled inside of it — like somehow, someway, dawn would still come, and she would be ready to see it.
—
Supporting Torah and Tanakh Verses:
