The first night after the news broke, Yael dropped her head into her hands and wept at the kitchen table, the glow from a half-eaten plate of pasta spotlighting her shame.
She had tried. She had tried so hard to lead the project at the community center responsibly — with diligence, with kindness. But she'd missed critical details, overpromised to funding partners, and now the whole initiative was collapsing under her watch. Better people had warned her she wasn't ready. Maybe deep down, she had known it too, but pride had stitched foolishness over her ears. And now? People she loved and respected were disappointed ... and worse yet, Yael imagined G-d Himself turning away from her in silence.
“You fail even when you’re trying to do something for Him,” she whispered into the empty kitchen, her voice breaking.
Silence.
She tucked her knees to her chest and sat until the night bled into early morning, feeling the deep cavern of separation she had dug. She imagined her sins stacked up, high as mountains: arrogance, carelessness, selfish ambition. How could she call out now? How could she believe that He would still hear her voice?
Days blurred past. She went through motions, answered emails half-heartedly, smiled brittle smiles at neighbors in the courtyard. Each routine felt like drudging through thick mud: heavy, slow, shameful. She imagined herself wearing her failure plain upon her chest like a tattered garment.
One afternoon, Yael wandered outside earlier than usual, longing for some piece of sky. The small garden at the edge of the apartments, normally ignored, had exploded into early spring bloom after a surprise rainstorm. Wild roses, tangled and defiant, spilled over the crumbling fence. Tiny violets pushed brave faces through cracks in the stone.
She sank onto a bench with a sigh, feeling irrelevant among so much stubborn beauty.
A shadow stirred nearby. A little boy—Noam, from the third floor—was crouched near the violets, his hands working intently. Then, shyly, he scampered over, one fist closed around something small. Without a word, he deposited a bruised clump of violets onto the bench beside her and looked up at her uncertainly.
“They’re for you,” he mumbled. “’Cause you’re nice…” He hesitated. “Even when things don’t go so good.”
Yael stared at the wilted offering. For one rattling moment, she couldn't breathe.
Even when things don't go so good.
The words cracked something open. Yael’s fingers shook as she picked up the flowers. In their crumpled petals, she felt it — the whisper of mercy she hadn’t dared hope for. Not vindication, not reversal, but something gentler: a reminder that compassion wasn’t reserved only for the victorious.
Tears blurred the sharp edges of the garden. She pressed the flowers to her chest and breathed in the fragile scent, letting it fill the hollow space inside her.
Bit by bit, verses she hadn’t consciously thought of in years stirred from the dust: "He does not deal with us according to our sins..." "As far as the east is from the west..." "Who is a G-d like You, pardoning iniquity...?"
Perhaps G-d wasn’t waiting for her to succeed perfectly. Perhaps He was just waiting for her to return.
And there, under the budding trees, in the company of a child’s silent kindness and bruised violet petals, Yael whispered for the first time in days, “G-d, I’m sorry. And... thank You.”
A soft breeze lifted her hair, a kiss of spring brushing her face. It wasn’t grand or miraculous. Just simple, quiet hope.
She wasn’t alone after all.
—
Supporting Scriptures:
The first night after the news broke, Yael dropped her head into her hands and wept at the kitchen table, the glow from a half-eaten plate of pasta spotlighting her shame.
She had tried. She had tried so hard to lead the project at the community center responsibly — with diligence, with kindness. But she'd missed critical details, overpromised to funding partners, and now the whole initiative was collapsing under her watch. Better people had warned her she wasn't ready. Maybe deep down, she had known it too, but pride had stitched foolishness over her ears. And now? People she loved and respected were disappointed ... and worse yet, Yael imagined G-d Himself turning away from her in silence.
“You fail even when you’re trying to do something for Him,” she whispered into the empty kitchen, her voice breaking.
Silence.
She tucked her knees to her chest and sat until the night bled into early morning, feeling the deep cavern of separation she had dug. She imagined her sins stacked up, high as mountains: arrogance, carelessness, selfish ambition. How could she call out now? How could she believe that He would still hear her voice?
Days blurred past. She went through motions, answered emails half-heartedly, smiled brittle smiles at neighbors in the courtyard. Each routine felt like drudging through thick mud: heavy, slow, shameful. She imagined herself wearing her failure plain upon her chest like a tattered garment.
One afternoon, Yael wandered outside earlier than usual, longing for some piece of sky. The small garden at the edge of the apartments, normally ignored, had exploded into early spring bloom after a surprise rainstorm. Wild roses, tangled and defiant, spilled over the crumbling fence. Tiny violets pushed brave faces through cracks in the stone.
She sank onto a bench with a sigh, feeling irrelevant among so much stubborn beauty.
A shadow stirred nearby. A little boy—Noam, from the third floor—was crouched near the violets, his hands working intently. Then, shyly, he scampered over, one fist closed around something small. Without a word, he deposited a bruised clump of violets onto the bench beside her and looked up at her uncertainly.
“They’re for you,” he mumbled. “’Cause you’re nice…” He hesitated. “Even when things don’t go so good.”
Yael stared at the wilted offering. For one rattling moment, she couldn't breathe.
Even when things don't go so good.
The words cracked something open. Yael’s fingers shook as she picked up the flowers. In their crumpled petals, she felt it — the whisper of mercy she hadn’t dared hope for. Not vindication, not reversal, but something gentler: a reminder that compassion wasn’t reserved only for the victorious.
Tears blurred the sharp edges of the garden. She pressed the flowers to her chest and breathed in the fragile scent, letting it fill the hollow space inside her.
Bit by bit, verses she hadn’t consciously thought of in years stirred from the dust: "He does not deal with us according to our sins..." "As far as the east is from the west..." "Who is a G-d like You, pardoning iniquity...?"
Perhaps G-d wasn’t waiting for her to succeed perfectly. Perhaps He was just waiting for her to return.
And there, under the budding trees, in the company of a child’s silent kindness and bruised violet petals, Yael whispered for the first time in days, “G-d, I’m sorry. And... thank You.”
A soft breeze lifted her hair, a kiss of spring brushing her face. It wasn’t grand or miraculous. Just simple, quiet hope.
She wasn’t alone after all.
—
Supporting Scriptures:
