The rain had been falling for three days.
Maya sat on the edge of the wooden bench outside her small home, the scent of wet earth thick in the air. Everything inside her felt just as sodden, just as heavy. In the distance, the mountains rose like giant guards around her village, their peaks swallowed by a gray, weeping sky. She hugged her knees to her chest, swallowing the familiar knot of dread that had been her shadow for months now.
How was she going to do this? How was she supposed to move forward when everything felt broken?
It had been six months since Dovid, her husband, had passed away—the suddenness of it still echoing, sharp and jagged. Their small vineyard, clinging stubbornly to the rocky hillside, was now hers alone to tend. It had always been their dream together. Now, alone, it loomed like an unclimbable mountain.
Maya closed her eyes against the sting of fresh tears, words fluttering unbidden through her mind: "If you have faith as small as a mustard seed, you can say to this mountain, 'Move from here to there,' and it will move."
She remembered the verse from her childhood cheder classes, her teacher’s warm voice guiding them through the words of the Torah. At the time, it had seemed like a pretty story. Today, it felt impossibly far away.
The sharp cry of a bird pulled her attention upward. High above the rain and mist, a single hawk soared, wings stretched wide, riding invisible currents she couldn't see. Maya found herself marveling at its trust—to let go and be carried by something it could not control.
Her chest tightened. Was that what faith was? Not the certainty that the storm would pass right away—but the trust that even in it, G-d held her?
A soft shuffling sound drew her gaze down the path. Little Yael from the next farm over was trudging through the mud, boots far too big for her small feet, a red scarf trailing behind like a banner. In her fist, she clasped something, raising it proudly when she reached Maya.
"For you!" she beamed, holding out a crumpled handful of daisies, their petals battered but still defiantly bright.
Maya's heart cracked open in the quietest, most tender way. She reached out with trembling fingers, accepting the gift. The damp flowers smelled faintly sweet—fragile, fierce little things born from stubborn soil.
"Thank you," Maya whispered, voice thick.
Yael only smiled wider, wrapping Maya in a muddy, fearless hug before galloping back into the mist.
For the first time in months, Maya laughed—a small, startled sound that felt strange and precious. She pressed the daisies against her heart. The mountain was still there, but it no longer seemed quite so impossible.
Maybe she couldn't climb it in one day. Maybe some days, the storm would still rage. But she wasn't alone. G-d was with her, steady as the mountains themselves, whispering through hawk's wings and children's open hands: "When you pass through the waters, I will be with you."
Maya rose from the bench, the daisies still clutched in her hand.
Tomorrow, she would begin again. Stone by stone, row by row, seed by little seed. Each step a small act of faith: not in her own strength, but in the One who had always been her rock, her fortress, her deliverer.
The storm might last a little longer, but the mountain would move, one prayer, one stubborn breath at a time.
—
Supporting Torah and Tanakh Verses:
The rain had been falling for three days.
Maya sat on the edge of the wooden bench outside her small home, the scent of wet earth thick in the air. Everything inside her felt just as sodden, just as heavy. In the distance, the mountains rose like giant guards around her village, their peaks swallowed by a gray, weeping sky. She hugged her knees to her chest, swallowing the familiar knot of dread that had been her shadow for months now.
How was she going to do this? How was she supposed to move forward when everything felt broken?
It had been six months since Dovid, her husband, had passed away—the suddenness of it still echoing, sharp and jagged. Their small vineyard, clinging stubbornly to the rocky hillside, was now hers alone to tend. It had always been their dream together. Now, alone, it loomed like an unclimbable mountain.
Maya closed her eyes against the sting of fresh tears, words fluttering unbidden through her mind: "If you have faith as small as a mustard seed, you can say to this mountain, 'Move from here to there,' and it will move."
She remembered the verse from her childhood cheder classes, her teacher’s warm voice guiding them through the words of the Torah. At the time, it had seemed like a pretty story. Today, it felt impossibly far away.
The sharp cry of a bird pulled her attention upward. High above the rain and mist, a single hawk soared, wings stretched wide, riding invisible currents she couldn't see. Maya found herself marveling at its trust—to let go and be carried by something it could not control.
Her chest tightened. Was that what faith was? Not the certainty that the storm would pass right away—but the trust that even in it, G-d held her?
A soft shuffling sound drew her gaze down the path. Little Yael from the next farm over was trudging through the mud, boots far too big for her small feet, a red scarf trailing behind like a banner. In her fist, she clasped something, raising it proudly when she reached Maya.
"For you!" she beamed, holding out a crumpled handful of daisies, their petals battered but still defiantly bright.
Maya's heart cracked open in the quietest, most tender way. She reached out with trembling fingers, accepting the gift. The damp flowers smelled faintly sweet—fragile, fierce little things born from stubborn soil.
"Thank you," Maya whispered, voice thick.
Yael only smiled wider, wrapping Maya in a muddy, fearless hug before galloping back into the mist.
For the first time in months, Maya laughed—a small, startled sound that felt strange and precious. She pressed the daisies against her heart. The mountain was still there, but it no longer seemed quite so impossible.
Maybe she couldn't climb it in one day. Maybe some days, the storm would still rage. But she wasn't alone. G-d was with her, steady as the mountains themselves, whispering through hawk's wings and children's open hands: "When you pass through the waters, I will be with you."
Maya rose from the bench, the daisies still clutched in her hand.
Tomorrow, she would begin again. Stone by stone, row by row, seed by little seed. Each step a small act of faith: not in her own strength, but in the One who had always been her rock, her fortress, her deliverer.
The storm might last a little longer, but the mountain would move, one prayer, one stubborn breath at a time.
—
Supporting Torah and Tanakh Verses:
