The kitchen was steeped in silence except for the slow drip of the tap. Leah sat at the table, shoulders hunched, staring into her untouched cup of tea gone cold hours ago. Her phone sat face-up beside it, a small flashing orb of missed messages and unanswered calls. Her son David hadn’t checked in after his night shift. Her daughter Rivka had sounded strained and distracted last time they spoke. Worry clung to her chest like a heavy woolen shawl, suffocating and scratchy.
She closed her eyes and let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, whispering into the quiet, “Ribbono shel olam, please watch over them. I can’t carry this fear alone.”
Outside, rays of weakening autumn sun slanted across the backyard. The brittle gold leaves of the fig tree clung stubbornly to their branches, trembling in the breeze. Leah's eyes blurred. It felt sometimes like the more she loved, the more vulnerability she invited.
She blinked back tears and stood to pour the tea down the sink. As the water swirled away, an old melody floated into her mind — her father’s voice, rich and sure, singing gently to her when she was a child tangled in bad dreams: “Cast your burden on Hashem, and He will sustain you.”
The words wrapped around her like a warm quilt, settled somewhere deep inside her where the rawness was. She hadn’t thought about that song in years, but now, it rose with aching familiarity. Her father had sung it not to help her escape fear, but to teach her persistence: fear had to be given over, placed into G-d’s hands again and again.
Leah pulled the knitted shawl her mother had made her closer around her shoulders and made her way to the small sunroom overlooking the garden. She lowered herself into the worn armchair there, and, for the first time all day, she prayed aloud, her voice trembling.
Not grand words. Simple words. Ordinary, yearning words.
“Hashem... please hold David close when I cannot. Please be with Rivka when I don't have the right answers. Help me trust that Your arms stretch further than mine.”
As she prayed, something unexpected cracked open inside her. A quiet shift, like ice thawing. A slow, sweet filling up, as if the room itself leaned closer to hear her. Not a magic fix — her worries remained. But they no longer pressed against her ribs. They fluttered downward gently, like leaves laid at someone else's feet.
The sunlight touched her skin, warm and honeyed, and for a fleeting moment she thought she could smell the familiar scent of her father's tallit — cedar and wool and something indefinably comforting.
Leah smiled, laying a hand over her pounding heart. She wasn't alone, never had been. G-d had always been cradling her dearest loves, far beyond Leah’s anxious reach. She simply hadn’t remembered to feel it.
Later, when David finally called, laughing sheepishly about oversleeping after a grueling shift, and Rivka texted a heart emoji with her apologies, Leah laughed too. These little reassurances, she knew now, were gifts — but her peace couldn't depend on them.
Peace was planted at a deeper root: the quiet certainty that whatever storm came, G-d’s hands were never empty.
The light outside dimmed, painting the sky in strokes of rose and violet. Leah closed her eyes once more, letting her heart's prayer rise, feather-light and full of hope.
—
Selected Torah/Tanakh Verses:
These verses remind us that when we surrender our heavy worries for our loved ones into Hashem's keeping, we can find deep, sustaining peace beyond our own strength.
The kitchen was steeped in silence except for the slow drip of the tap. Leah sat at the table, shoulders hunched, staring into her untouched cup of tea gone cold hours ago. Her phone sat face-up beside it, a small flashing orb of missed messages and unanswered calls. Her son David hadn’t checked in after his night shift. Her daughter Rivka had sounded strained and distracted last time they spoke. Worry clung to her chest like a heavy woolen shawl, suffocating and scratchy.
She closed her eyes and let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, whispering into the quiet, “Ribbono shel olam, please watch over them. I can’t carry this fear alone.”
Outside, rays of weakening autumn sun slanted across the backyard. The brittle gold leaves of the fig tree clung stubbornly to their branches, trembling in the breeze. Leah's eyes blurred. It felt sometimes like the more she loved, the more vulnerability she invited.
She blinked back tears and stood to pour the tea down the sink. As the water swirled away, an old melody floated into her mind — her father’s voice, rich and sure, singing gently to her when she was a child tangled in bad dreams: “Cast your burden on Hashem, and He will sustain you.”
The words wrapped around her like a warm quilt, settled somewhere deep inside her where the rawness was. She hadn’t thought about that song in years, but now, it rose with aching familiarity. Her father had sung it not to help her escape fear, but to teach her persistence: fear had to be given over, placed into G-d’s hands again and again.
Leah pulled the knitted shawl her mother had made her closer around her shoulders and made her way to the small sunroom overlooking the garden. She lowered herself into the worn armchair there, and, for the first time all day, she prayed aloud, her voice trembling.
Not grand words. Simple words. Ordinary, yearning words.
“Hashem... please hold David close when I cannot. Please be with Rivka when I don't have the right answers. Help me trust that Your arms stretch further than mine.”
As she prayed, something unexpected cracked open inside her. A quiet shift, like ice thawing. A slow, sweet filling up, as if the room itself leaned closer to hear her. Not a magic fix — her worries remained. But they no longer pressed against her ribs. They fluttered downward gently, like leaves laid at someone else's feet.
The sunlight touched her skin, warm and honeyed, and for a fleeting moment she thought she could smell the familiar scent of her father's tallit — cedar and wool and something indefinably comforting.
Leah smiled, laying a hand over her pounding heart. She wasn't alone, never had been. G-d had always been cradling her dearest loves, far beyond Leah’s anxious reach. She simply hadn’t remembered to feel it.
Later, when David finally called, laughing sheepishly about oversleeping after a grueling shift, and Rivka texted a heart emoji with her apologies, Leah laughed too. These little reassurances, she knew now, were gifts — but her peace couldn't depend on them.
Peace was planted at a deeper root: the quiet certainty that whatever storm came, G-d’s hands were never empty.
The light outside dimmed, painting the sky in strokes of rose and violet. Leah closed her eyes once more, letting her heart's prayer rise, feather-light and full of hope.
—
Selected Torah/Tanakh Verses:
These verses remind us that when we surrender our heavy worries for our loved ones into Hashem's keeping, we can find deep, sustaining peace beyond our own strength.
