Tali wiped at her tired eyes with the sleeve of her sweater, blinking hard at the cracked eggshell wall in front of her. The hum of her tiny apartment filled the silence — the whisper of the heater, the ticking of the old clock, the faint traffic murmuring from beyond the window. She hadn’t spoken a word aloud all day. No messages. No visits. Not even from her sisters, who used to call without fail every Friday before Shabbat.
Maybe they forgot. Maybe she was forgettable.
The thought curled tightly in her chest, a cold, small thing. She pressed her forehead against her knees, pulling herself inward into a ball on the worn couch. "Am I really that invisible?" she whispered. Her voice cracked, the sound feathering away into nothingness.
She wondered — terribly, almost angrily — if even G-d had turned His face away too.
The tears came without much drama, slipping silently down her cheeks. She didn’t fight them. Tali thought about the old lullabies her mother sang, the ones that spoke of G-d carrying His people tenderly, of being cradled beneath wings unseen but ever-watchful. They felt so far away now. Childhood dreams.
A strange pressure grew in her chest — a yearning so fierce it startled her: to be seen. Not merely noticed in passing, but actually seen all the way through, down to the small, messy soul she was.
At that moment, a soft thump sounded at the window. Tali startled, glancing up. There, barely inches away behind the glass, a tiny sparrow huddled on the sill, feathers puffed against the cold. Its dark eyes blinked slowly, studying her.
They regarded each other for a long moment — the girl who thought she was unseen and the creature no one would have looked for except her.
A memory unfurled, clear and sudden, from long-forgotten mornings sitting by her father's side: "He gives food to every creature, for His mercy endures forever... Even a sparrow will not fall to the ground without His knowing." Her father's voice had been warm as sunlight, sure as the tides.
Tali's chest loosened on a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. She wiped her face again — gently, this time. If G-d saw even this tiny bird, saw to its life under the floating winter clouds... then surely, surely He had not forgotten her either.
She rose and cracked the window open just enough to let the sparrow find its wings again. It shook once, as if gathering courage, then flitted away into the gray sky — small, brave, utterly seen.
Tali watched until it disappeared from view. The world outside looked no different: the bare trees, the concrete sidewalks, the muted sun. Yet inside, something soft and certain had taken root.
She wasn’t invisible. Not to the One Who had written her name on His palms.
A small smile touched her lips, tremulous but real. She moved around her apartment, lighting candles for Shabbat, the flame casting golden glimmers against the walls.
"Behold, the eye of Hashem is upon those who fear Him, upon those who hope in His lovingkindness," she murmured as the light grew, remembering.
Tali set the table — one place, beautiful and complete — and whispered a shaky thank you to the quiet, faithful Presence she could not see but suddenly, deeply, felt.
She lifted her cup to bless the wine and closed her eyes.
She was seen. She was known. She was loved.
Always had been.
Always would be.
And somehow, that was enough to begin again.
—
Supporting Verses:
Tali wiped at her tired eyes with the sleeve of her sweater, blinking hard at the cracked eggshell wall in front of her. The hum of her tiny apartment filled the silence — the whisper of the heater, the ticking of the old clock, the faint traffic murmuring from beyond the window. She hadn’t spoken a word aloud all day. No messages. No visits. Not even from her sisters, who used to call without fail every Friday before Shabbat.
Maybe they forgot. Maybe she was forgettable.
The thought curled tightly in her chest, a cold, small thing. She pressed her forehead against her knees, pulling herself inward into a ball on the worn couch. "Am I really that invisible?" she whispered. Her voice cracked, the sound feathering away into nothingness.
She wondered — terribly, almost angrily — if even G-d had turned His face away too.
The tears came without much drama, slipping silently down her cheeks. She didn’t fight them. Tali thought about the old lullabies her mother sang, the ones that spoke of G-d carrying His people tenderly, of being cradled beneath wings unseen but ever-watchful. They felt so far away now. Childhood dreams.
A strange pressure grew in her chest — a yearning so fierce it startled her: to be seen. Not merely noticed in passing, but actually seen all the way through, down to the small, messy soul she was.
At that moment, a soft thump sounded at the window. Tali startled, glancing up. There, barely inches away behind the glass, a tiny sparrow huddled on the sill, feathers puffed against the cold. Its dark eyes blinked slowly, studying her.
They regarded each other for a long moment — the girl who thought she was unseen and the creature no one would have looked for except her.
A memory unfurled, clear and sudden, from long-forgotten mornings sitting by her father's side: "He gives food to every creature, for His mercy endures forever... Even a sparrow will not fall to the ground without His knowing." Her father's voice had been warm as sunlight, sure as the tides.
Tali's chest loosened on a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. She wiped her face again — gently, this time. If G-d saw even this tiny bird, saw to its life under the floating winter clouds... then surely, surely He had not forgotten her either.
She rose and cracked the window open just enough to let the sparrow find its wings again. It shook once, as if gathering courage, then flitted away into the gray sky — small, brave, utterly seen.
Tali watched until it disappeared from view. The world outside looked no different: the bare trees, the concrete sidewalks, the muted sun. Yet inside, something soft and certain had taken root.
She wasn’t invisible. Not to the One Who had written her name on His palms.
A small smile touched her lips, tremulous but real. She moved around her apartment, lighting candles for Shabbat, the flame casting golden glimmers against the walls.
"Behold, the eye of Hashem is upon those who fear Him, upon those who hope in His lovingkindness," she murmured as the light grew, remembering.
Tali set the table — one place, beautiful and complete — and whispered a shaky thank you to the quiet, faithful Presence she could not see but suddenly, deeply, felt.
She lifted her cup to bless the wine and closed her eyes.
She was seen. She was known. She was loved.
Always had been.
Always would be.
And somehow, that was enough to begin again.
—
Supporting Verses: