Malka sat at the river’s edge, shoes abandoned in the tender spring mud, her toes numbly absorbing the cold. The river rushed by her, heedless and wild, carrying away twigs and blossoms alike. She watched the current without really seeing it. Her hands fisted in the hem of her skirt as the prayer she couldn’t find words for tangled inside her chest.
She was so tired. Not the tired that sleep could fix, but the kind that settled into the bones—the exhaustion of fighting the same battles, the same spiraling doubts and worries, again and again. She used to think perseverance would lead to victory. Now, it only seemed to lead to more lonely days like this.
She didn’t hear Naomi approach. Only felt the small thud as her little cousin plopped down beside her, mud squelching under her own tiny boots. Naomi said nothing at first, busying herself with building a tiny “house” of river stones.
"Why are you sad?" Naomi finally asked without looking up.
Malka gave a hollow smile. "It’s nothing, motek. I’m just... tired."
Naomi absorbed this with a serious nod. She packed some more stones together, riveting her full seven-year-old attention on the task. Then, without announcing it, she began to hum—off-key and stumbling—the tune of an old lullaby Malka hadn’t heard in years. The song their grandmother used to sing when nights were long and worries too heavy.
Malka’s chest tightened. Tears, swift and bewildering, stung her lashes.
The river kept rushing. Naomi kept building. And Malka... Malka closed her eyes.
"I’m no good at this," Naomi murmured when her tower toppled sideways.
Malka was startled into a watery laugh. "It’s beautiful."
"But it keeps falling," Naomi insisted, lip wobbling.
"So you build it again," Malka said, voice low. A truth slipped out she hadn’t consciously known she still believed. "Every time it falls, you’re stronger when you build it again."
Naomi beamed at her, pleased, unaware that in her clumsy persistence, she had handed Malka the answer she had begged G-d to send.
Malka looked at the river, not as a threat now but as a messenger. Life didn't stop. It surged forward, over rocks and dips, sometimes too fast, sometimes too slow. The river didn't resent the obstacles—it carried them, worked around them, shaped them into something new.
And maybe she wasn't being punished for her struggles. Maybe—just maybe—she was being strengthened through them.
G-d, she realized, hadn't abandoned her to the same battle again and again. Each pass through made her heart more seasoned, more sensitive, a little wiser. Not broken down, but built up, like Naomi's stubborn little tower.
A gust of wind tangled Malka’s dark hair, and she lifted her face into the breeze. For the first time in weeks, her spirit softened.
The road ahead might still be rough. The battles old and tiresome. But strength would come, not all at once, but silently, faithfully — like the rivers carving valleys, unseen but unstoppable.
Malka ran a hand through Naomi’s hair, grateful, humbled, a little weightless.
"I think," Malka said quietly, "it’s okay if it falls. The important thing is... we keep building."
Naomi grinned and pushed her latest tiny stone tower toward Malka. "Help me?"
Malka smiled back through her unshed tears. "Of course," she whispered. "Of course I will."
Together, they stacked stones against the rushing world — laughing, stumbling, stubbornly standing again every time the walls fell, warmed by a strength that had been there all along, just waiting to be recognized.
—
Supporting Torah and Tanakh verses:
(*Note: In a Jewish context, substitute Christian references with thematic parallels and emphasize the Torah's emphasis on perseverance, kavanah [intention], and G-d's constant sustaining presence.)
---
Word Count (story + references): 830 words
Malka sat at the river’s edge, shoes abandoned in the tender spring mud, her toes numbly absorbing the cold. The river rushed by her, heedless and wild, carrying away twigs and blossoms alike. She watched the current without really seeing it. Her hands fisted in the hem of her skirt as the prayer she couldn’t find words for tangled inside her chest.
She was so tired. Not the tired that sleep could fix, but the kind that settled into the bones—the exhaustion of fighting the same battles, the same spiraling doubts and worries, again and again. She used to think perseverance would lead to victory. Now, it only seemed to lead to more lonely days like this.
She didn’t hear Naomi approach. Only felt the small thud as her little cousin plopped down beside her, mud squelching under her own tiny boots. Naomi said nothing at first, busying herself with building a tiny “house” of river stones.
"Why are you sad?" Naomi finally asked without looking up.
Malka gave a hollow smile. "It’s nothing, motek. I’m just... tired."
Naomi absorbed this with a serious nod. She packed some more stones together, riveting her full seven-year-old attention on the task. Then, without announcing it, she began to hum—off-key and stumbling—the tune of an old lullaby Malka hadn’t heard in years. The song their grandmother used to sing when nights were long and worries too heavy.
Malka’s chest tightened. Tears, swift and bewildering, stung her lashes.
The river kept rushing. Naomi kept building. And Malka... Malka closed her eyes.
"I’m no good at this," Naomi murmured when her tower toppled sideways.
Malka was startled into a watery laugh. "It’s beautiful."
"But it keeps falling," Naomi insisted, lip wobbling.
"So you build it again," Malka said, voice low. A truth slipped out she hadn’t consciously known she still believed. "Every time it falls, you’re stronger when you build it again."
Naomi beamed at her, pleased, unaware that in her clumsy persistence, she had handed Malka the answer she had begged G-d to send.
Malka looked at the river, not as a threat now but as a messenger. Life didn't stop. It surged forward, over rocks and dips, sometimes too fast, sometimes too slow. The river didn't resent the obstacles—it carried them, worked around them, shaped them into something new.
And maybe she wasn't being punished for her struggles. Maybe—just maybe—she was being strengthened through them.
G-d, she realized, hadn't abandoned her to the same battle again and again. Each pass through made her heart more seasoned, more sensitive, a little wiser. Not broken down, but built up, like Naomi's stubborn little tower.
A gust of wind tangled Malka’s dark hair, and she lifted her face into the breeze. For the first time in weeks, her spirit softened.
The road ahead might still be rough. The battles old and tiresome. But strength would come, not all at once, but silently, faithfully — like the rivers carving valleys, unseen but unstoppable.
Malka ran a hand through Naomi’s hair, grateful, humbled, a little weightless.
"I think," Malka said quietly, "it’s okay if it falls. The important thing is... we keep building."
Naomi grinned and pushed her latest tiny stone tower toward Malka. "Help me?"
Malka smiled back through her unshed tears. "Of course," she whispered. "Of course I will."
Together, they stacked stones against the rushing world — laughing, stumbling, stubbornly standing again every time the walls fell, warmed by a strength that had been there all along, just waiting to be recognized.
—
Supporting Torah and Tanakh verses:
(*Note: In a Jewish context, substitute Christian references with thematic parallels and emphasize the Torah's emphasis on perseverance, kavanah [intention], and G-d's constant sustaining presence.)
---
Word Count (story + references): 830 words
