The rain tapped lightly against the windowpane, a soft, persistent rhythm that matched the ache in Yael’s chest. She sat curled up on the worn sofa, legs tucked beneath her, the gray afternoon pressing heavily against her. The future stretched before her—a tangled web of debts, unanswered questions, lonely what-ifs. Every possible road seemed lined with fear: Would the new job come through? Would her father’s treatments work? What if… what if...
The word "if" swallowed her whole.
Yael pressed her forehead against the cool glass, letting the damp chill ground her. "Hashem," she whispered, the word barely forming on her lips. It was not a prayer so much as a breath carried upward.
She used to think faith would make anxiety impossible, like a shield. Instead, it felt like she was carrying two loads at once—her fear, and the heavier burden of thinking she shouldn’t even have it.
It was then she noticed a sudden flicker of movement outside. Across the narrow alley, in the courtyard, a little girl sat bent over a small patch of dirt. The rain painted her hair dark, plastering curls to her head, yet she worked on determinedly—fingers poking something into the soil.
Yael squinted. Seeds.
Sure enough, every tiny seed the child pressed into the earth was quickly swallowed by mud and rain, hidden completely. Anyone else would think it hopeless, foolish even, planting in the downpour like that. But not this little girl. She had such fierce hope written across her small, serious face.
Yael felt something shift inside her, imperceptibly at first, like the first tendon of light before a dawn.
Maybe peace wasn't the absence of fear. Maybe it was planting anyway—trusting that G-d saw past the mud, past the uncertainty, into a future she could not yet imagine.
Her mind drifted, almost unbidden, to the quiet words she had once memorized as a teenager, tucked into a corner of her heart and now rising like a forgotten melody: "Cast your burden on Hashem, and He will sustain you." (Tehillim 55:23)
The rain softened its staccato to a gentle whisper, and Yael drew a breath that filled her whole lungs, expanding the tight places. "I don’t have to be enough," she murmured. "I just have to trust the seeds I plant."
Slowly, she rose from the sofa, slipping her feet into the worn slippers at the door. Her small apartment looked no different—the unpaid bills still sat on the table, her phone still blinked with unanswered messages—but inside her, something had changed. She was not alone. She never had been.
As she opened the door, the cool scent of earth and rain washed over her, and she paused on the threshold. Across the way, the little girl looked up at her and grinned, her missing front teeth flashing. It was such a small thing, ridiculous even, but something in Yael laughed aloud, a sweet, surprised laugh that broke through from somewhere deep and aching and joyful.
She stepped outside, lifting her face to the sky, and let the rain fall freely over her. Maybe tomorrow would still come bearing hard things. Maybe there were still dark roads to walk. But for now, she would plant hope into the wet ground and entrust the rest to the One who made the seasons turn and the seeds sprout.
Yael smiled, closed her eyes, and whispered, “Thank You, Hashem,” as the rain baptized her fear into something softer and holy.
—
Supporting Torah and Tanakh Verses:
The rain tapped lightly against the windowpane, a soft, persistent rhythm that matched the ache in Yael’s chest. She sat curled up on the worn sofa, legs tucked beneath her, the gray afternoon pressing heavily against her. The future stretched before her—a tangled web of debts, unanswered questions, lonely what-ifs. Every possible road seemed lined with fear: Would the new job come through? Would her father’s treatments work? What if… what if...
The word "if" swallowed her whole.
Yael pressed her forehead against the cool glass, letting the damp chill ground her. "Hashem," she whispered, the word barely forming on her lips. It was not a prayer so much as a breath carried upward.
She used to think faith would make anxiety impossible, like a shield. Instead, it felt like she was carrying two loads at once—her fear, and the heavier burden of thinking she shouldn’t even have it.
It was then she noticed a sudden flicker of movement outside. Across the narrow alley, in the courtyard, a little girl sat bent over a small patch of dirt. The rain painted her hair dark, plastering curls to her head, yet she worked on determinedly—fingers poking something into the soil.
Yael squinted. Seeds.
Sure enough, every tiny seed the child pressed into the earth was quickly swallowed by mud and rain, hidden completely. Anyone else would think it hopeless, foolish even, planting in the downpour like that. But not this little girl. She had such fierce hope written across her small, serious face.
Yael felt something shift inside her, imperceptibly at first, like the first tendon of light before a dawn.
Maybe peace wasn't the absence of fear. Maybe it was planting anyway—trusting that G-d saw past the mud, past the uncertainty, into a future she could not yet imagine.
Her mind drifted, almost unbidden, to the quiet words she had once memorized as a teenager, tucked into a corner of her heart and now rising like a forgotten melody: "Cast your burden on Hashem, and He will sustain you." (Tehillim 55:23)
The rain softened its staccato to a gentle whisper, and Yael drew a breath that filled her whole lungs, expanding the tight places. "I don’t have to be enough," she murmured. "I just have to trust the seeds I plant."
Slowly, she rose from the sofa, slipping her feet into the worn slippers at the door. Her small apartment looked no different—the unpaid bills still sat on the table, her phone still blinked with unanswered messages—but inside her, something had changed. She was not alone. She never had been.
As she opened the door, the cool scent of earth and rain washed over her, and she paused on the threshold. Across the way, the little girl looked up at her and grinned, her missing front teeth flashing. It was such a small thing, ridiculous even, but something in Yael laughed aloud, a sweet, surprised laugh that broke through from somewhere deep and aching and joyful.
She stepped outside, lifting her face to the sky, and let the rain fall freely over her. Maybe tomorrow would still come bearing hard things. Maybe there were still dark roads to walk. But for now, she would plant hope into the wet ground and entrust the rest to the One who made the seasons turn and the seeds sprout.
Yael smiled, closed her eyes, and whispered, “Thank You, Hashem,” as the rain baptized her fear into something softer and holy.
—
Supporting Torah and Tanakh Verses:
