The rain dripped from the edge of Talia's shawl, cold against her skin, as she stood on the cracked stone steps of her family's bakery. The For Sale sign hung lopsided in the window, a cruel punctuation mark on the past three generations of labor and love. Around her, the market bustled, oblivious to the way her heart clenched against her ribs.
Trust in G-d, they said. But what about when trusting felt like unlocking the last door to a room full of unknown shadows?
Talia pulled the keys from her apron pocket. Business had dried up since the new highway re-routed tourists away from their little village. She had only two options: sell now and cut her losses—or invest everything she had left into something uncertain, perhaps foolish. A new bakery, a new way, on a quieter street where no one passed by anymore.
Her grandfather’s voice floated back to her, not in judgment but in tenderness—the way he used to croon melodies from Tehillim while kneading dough. "Whenever I am afraid, I will trust in You," he would murmur, arms strong with years of work and years of faith.
Talia gripped the key tighter. Her hand trembled, but she took a breath, drawing in the scent of rain on earth, wet wood, the faint sweetness of yeast that still clung to the stones. She opened the door and stepped inside.
The bakery smelled hollow—a ghost of cinnamon and baked apples. Still, the sturdy wooden counters stood strong. The oven, ancient and cracked in places, sat like a sentinel waiting for the right hands.
She lit a candle in the corner, near the mezuzah, whispering the blessing with dry lips. The flame stirred, catching on the drafts in the room. For a moment, Talia only saw the risks, the enormity of what she was daring to ask of G-d: that somehow, He would meet her here.
"I'm scared," she admitted aloud, voice echoing off empty walls.
From the doorway, a thin knock sounded. She turned, expecting perhaps the realtor come to confirm the sale. Instead, a small boy stood there, rain plastering his black curls to his forehead. In his hands, cupped like something precious, he held a crumpled handful of violets and dandelions.
“For you,” he said simply.
Talia blinked, the prick of tears surprising her. "What's your name?"
"Yonatan," he said, grinning. "My Savta says your bread is the best. She misses it."
He wriggled in place as if embarrassed, then darted away, leaving her alone with the wildflowers tucked into her calloused palms.
Choice, like the flame on the candle, flickered within her. Not an absence of fear, but a stubborn, trembling hope that pressed against it.
Be strong and courageous, a whisper stirred in her memory. Do not be afraid or dismayed, for the L-rd your G-d is with you wherever you go.
Talia set the flowers in a chipped pottery vase near the window. She stripped off her wet shawl, tied her apron tighter, and rolled up her sleeves.
The flour was stubborn after so much time, clinging to the bowl in dusty resistance. The first batch she mixed came out lumpier than she liked. Still, she kneaded—with aching arms, with humming under her breath, with silent prayers between one fold and the next.
By the time the first loaf went into the oven, it was late afternoon. Steam curled from the doorway, carrying that long-forgotten smell into the street—warmth, welcome, the taste of something worth coming back to.
Talia stood by the window, cradling a mug of hot tea between her chilled hands, and watched as a couple of curious heads turned toward her shop. A woman nudged her husband; a teenager on a bike slowed to peer inside.
She smiled to herself, amazed at how hope had crept up in her without her noticing—blooming wild and stubborn, just like Yonatan’s gift.
In the quiet glow of the setting sun, with the candle flickering steadfastly, Talia realized she hadn’t risked everything after all.
She had risked trust.
And G-d had been there all along.
—
Supporting Torah and Tanakh Verses:
The rain dripped from the edge of Talia's shawl, cold against her skin, as she stood on the cracked stone steps of her family's bakery. The For Sale sign hung lopsided in the window, a cruel punctuation mark on the past three generations of labor and love. Around her, the market bustled, oblivious to the way her heart clenched against her ribs.
Trust in G-d, they said. But what about when trusting felt like unlocking the last door to a room full of unknown shadows?
Talia pulled the keys from her apron pocket. Business had dried up since the new highway re-routed tourists away from their little village. She had only two options: sell now and cut her losses—or invest everything she had left into something uncertain, perhaps foolish. A new bakery, a new way, on a quieter street where no one passed by anymore.
Her grandfather’s voice floated back to her, not in judgment but in tenderness—the way he used to croon melodies from Tehillim while kneading dough. "Whenever I am afraid, I will trust in You," he would murmur, arms strong with years of work and years of faith.
Talia gripped the key tighter. Her hand trembled, but she took a breath, drawing in the scent of rain on earth, wet wood, the faint sweetness of yeast that still clung to the stones. She opened the door and stepped inside.
The bakery smelled hollow—a ghost of cinnamon and baked apples. Still, the sturdy wooden counters stood strong. The oven, ancient and cracked in places, sat like a sentinel waiting for the right hands.
She lit a candle in the corner, near the mezuzah, whispering the blessing with dry lips. The flame stirred, catching on the drafts in the room. For a moment, Talia only saw the risks, the enormity of what she was daring to ask of G-d: that somehow, He would meet her here.
"I'm scared," she admitted aloud, voice echoing off empty walls.
From the doorway, a thin knock sounded. She turned, expecting perhaps the realtor come to confirm the sale. Instead, a small boy stood there, rain plastering his black curls to his forehead. In his hands, cupped like something precious, he held a crumpled handful of violets and dandelions.
“For you,” he said simply.
Talia blinked, the prick of tears surprising her. "What's your name?"
"Yonatan," he said, grinning. "My Savta says your bread is the best. She misses it."
He wriggled in place as if embarrassed, then darted away, leaving her alone with the wildflowers tucked into her calloused palms.
Choice, like the flame on the candle, flickered within her. Not an absence of fear, but a stubborn, trembling hope that pressed against it.
Be strong and courageous, a whisper stirred in her memory. Do not be afraid or dismayed, for the L-rd your G-d is with you wherever you go.
Talia set the flowers in a chipped pottery vase near the window. She stripped off her wet shawl, tied her apron tighter, and rolled up her sleeves.
The flour was stubborn after so much time, clinging to the bowl in dusty resistance. The first batch she mixed came out lumpier than she liked. Still, she kneaded—with aching arms, with humming under her breath, with silent prayers between one fold and the next.
By the time the first loaf went into the oven, it was late afternoon. Steam curled from the doorway, carrying that long-forgotten smell into the street—warmth, welcome, the taste of something worth coming back to.
Talia stood by the window, cradling a mug of hot tea between her chilled hands, and watched as a couple of curious heads turned toward her shop. A woman nudged her husband; a teenager on a bike slowed to peer inside.
She smiled to herself, amazed at how hope had crept up in her without her noticing—blooming wild and stubborn, just like Yonatan’s gift.
In the quiet glow of the setting sun, with the candle flickering steadfastly, Talia realized she hadn’t risked everything after all.
She had risked trust.
And G-d had been there all along.
—
Supporting Torah and Tanakh Verses:
