The first thing Miri felt when she opened her eyes was the heavy stillness of the room. Her heart ached, a deep, dull throb that she thought she had cried out long ago. She sat up slowly in bed, letting the early morning light spill over the worn quilt. Nothing had changed, not really. The job was still gone. The engagement ring, returned. The future she had clutched so tightly—gone, like mist under a rising sun.
The kettle gave a thin whistle, and she rose, every movement slow, as if grief had made her bones heavier. She poured hot water over the tea leaves and sat at the kitchen table with a sigh that felt too large for her body. Beyond the window, the winter fields were patches of gray and brittle brown. Even the earth looked like it had given up.
"I don't see the good in any of it," she whispered, pressing her forehead to the cool glass.
Days blurred, one folding quietly into another, until one morning, a sharp rap on the door broke the silence. Miri opened it to find little Naomi from next door, cheeks flushed pink, strands of hair stuck in her knitted scarf.
"Hi!" Naomi beamed, thrusting a small, crumpled piece of paper at her. "It's a picture! For you!"
Miri took it, bemused. On the rumpled paper, drawn in thick crayons, was a garden overflowing with giant sunflowers under a rainbow. Above it, in crooked lettering, it read: "You make beautiful things grow."
Miri's throat tightened. She crouched down, meeting Naomi’s shining eyes.
"Why did you make this for me?" she managed.
"Because Ima says when we plant seeds, it takes a long time to see the flowers. But you have to believe they're growing even when they're hiding," Naomi said in one breath, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
When Naomi scampered off, Miri leaned against the doorframe, the paper pressed to her chest. For the first time in months, she noticed something she hadn’t seen: the daffodils, tight and green, poking bravely through the frozen ground by the fence.
The world was stirring, quietly, stubbornly.
That night, as Miri sat by the oil lamp, she opened her old tanakh. Her hands flipping pages without quite thinking until her eyes landed on words that felt like a whisper through her very bones:
"You intended harm, but G-d intended it for good."
Tears welled up—but this time, they did not burn. They softened. Maybe she couldn't see the whole picture yet. Maybe the loss, the loneliness, the stillness were seeds buried deep under cold earth, waiting for their unseen work to be done.
It wouldn’t always feel like this. One day, something beautiful would break through.
Miri wiped her cheeks and, on an impulse, pulled a packet of flower seeds from the drawer. She thought she had thrown them out months ago. Under the frail light, she read the instructions: "Plant even before final frost."
Even before frost. Even when it hurt. Even when she couldn't see a single sign.
She smiled—a small, trembling smile—as she placed the seeds on the windowsill. Hope, fragile but alive, unfurled inside her.
The ending she feared wasn't the end at all. It was the soil. It was the beginning.
Supporting Torah and Tanakh Verses:
The first thing Miri felt when she opened her eyes was the heavy stillness of the room. Her heart ached, a deep, dull throb that she thought she had cried out long ago. She sat up slowly in bed, letting the early morning light spill over the worn quilt. Nothing had changed, not really. The job was still gone. The engagement ring, returned. The future she had clutched so tightly—gone, like mist under a rising sun.
The kettle gave a thin whistle, and she rose, every movement slow, as if grief had made her bones heavier. She poured hot water over the tea leaves and sat at the kitchen table with a sigh that felt too large for her body. Beyond the window, the winter fields were patches of gray and brittle brown. Even the earth looked like it had given up.
"I don't see the good in any of it," she whispered, pressing her forehead to the cool glass.
Days blurred, one folding quietly into another, until one morning, a sharp rap on the door broke the silence. Miri opened it to find little Naomi from next door, cheeks flushed pink, strands of hair stuck in her knitted scarf.
"Hi!" Naomi beamed, thrusting a small, crumpled piece of paper at her. "It's a picture! For you!"
Miri took it, bemused. On the rumpled paper, drawn in thick crayons, was a garden overflowing with giant sunflowers under a rainbow. Above it, in crooked lettering, it read: "You make beautiful things grow."
Miri's throat tightened. She crouched down, meeting Naomi’s shining eyes.
"Why did you make this for me?" she managed.
"Because Ima says when we plant seeds, it takes a long time to see the flowers. But you have to believe they're growing even when they're hiding," Naomi said in one breath, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
When Naomi scampered off, Miri leaned against the doorframe, the paper pressed to her chest. For the first time in months, she noticed something she hadn’t seen: the daffodils, tight and green, poking bravely through the frozen ground by the fence.
The world was stirring, quietly, stubbornly.
That night, as Miri sat by the oil lamp, she opened her old tanakh. Her hands flipping pages without quite thinking until her eyes landed on words that felt like a whisper through her very bones:
"You intended harm, but G-d intended it for good."
Tears welled up—but this time, they did not burn. They softened. Maybe she couldn't see the whole picture yet. Maybe the loss, the loneliness, the stillness were seeds buried deep under cold earth, waiting for their unseen work to be done.
It wouldn’t always feel like this. One day, something beautiful would break through.
Miri wiped her cheeks and, on an impulse, pulled a packet of flower seeds from the drawer. She thought she had thrown them out months ago. Under the frail light, she read the instructions: "Plant even before final frost."
Even before frost. Even when it hurt. Even when she couldn't see a single sign.
She smiled—a small, trembling smile—as she placed the seeds on the windowsill. Hope, fragile but alive, unfurled inside her.
The ending she feared wasn't the end at all. It was the soil. It was the beginning.
Supporting Torah and Tanakh Verses:
