Rivka sat on the worn stone steps outside her apartment, arms wrapped around her knees, chin tucked in tight. The gray twilight folded itself around the city buildings like a thick, silent cloak. Somewhere below, a child laughed and a dog barked, but here, on the third-floor stoop, all Rivka could hear was the unsteady thump of her own heart and the hollow whisper of her thoughts: What if it’s over for me? What if there’s nothing left?
A crumpled letter lay beside her. It was an official notice — no severance, no apology, just a cold ending to twelve years of steady work. It wasn’t just a job lost; it felt like her future had evaporated.
She stared at the bruised sky until her eyes blurred. The words of Jeremiah 29:11 drifted unexpectedly into her mind, as if carried on the breeze: “For I know the plans I have for you, declares Hashem…. plans to give you a future and a hope.”
Her breath caught. Plans, she thought bitterly. Where are they now?
Just then, something brushed against her hand — a flash of soft yellow. She blinked and looked down to see a dandelion puff bobbing lightly against her knuckles. It was ridiculous, absurd even, this tiny sphere of life adrift in a hard, cement world. She cupped it instinctively in her hands. So fragile, and yet it had traveled who-knows-how-far, still intact, still dancing.
Without meaning to, Rivka smiled — just a faint curve at the edge of her mouth, a break in the clouds.
She carefully lifted the dandelion and blew. Tiny seeds loosed themselves into the dusk, sailing upward, fearless against the waiting dark. They didn’t ask where they would land. They simply went.
The memory of her father's voice rose up, as vividly as if he stood beside her again. He used to whisper it to her bedside when she cried over school troubles, over broken friendships: “Hashem will perfect what concerns you,” he would say, quoting from Psalm 138. “The work of His hands, He will not forsake.”
Her throat tightened, but this time it wasn't despair. It was the sudden realization that she wasn’t alone out here. Hashem had seen the crumpled letter. He had felt the sharp twisting of her heart. And even here, He was planting seeds.
Rivka gathered the letter in shaking hands, folded it neatly, and slipped it into her coat pocket. She didn’t know what lay ahead. But for the first time in weeks, the ache in her chest softened just slightly, like earth after the year’s first rain.
When she stood, she breathed deep. Overhead, the first star flickered into being, stubborn against the encroaching night. Rivka whispered a blessing under her breath, almost shyly — a prayer of thanks, of hope, of tentative beginning.
Her story wasn’t over yet.
---
Torah and Tanakh Verses Supporting the Themes:
— This verse directly reflects Rivka’s journey from despair to realizing that G-d still holds a future for her.
— The reassurance that G-d is still at work, even in brokenness, underpins Rivka’s comfort and emotional healing.
— Offers deep assurance of G-d’s abiding presence throughout uncertainty and change.
— Speaks unmistakably to Rivka’s inner transformation from mourning loss to reclaiming quiet hope.
Rivka sat on the worn stone steps outside her apartment, arms wrapped around her knees, chin tucked in tight. The gray twilight folded itself around the city buildings like a thick, silent cloak. Somewhere below, a child laughed and a dog barked, but here, on the third-floor stoop, all Rivka could hear was the unsteady thump of her own heart and the hollow whisper of her thoughts: What if it’s over for me? What if there’s nothing left?
A crumpled letter lay beside her. It was an official notice — no severance, no apology, just a cold ending to twelve years of steady work. It wasn’t just a job lost; it felt like her future had evaporated.
She stared at the bruised sky until her eyes blurred. The words of Jeremiah 29:11 drifted unexpectedly into her mind, as if carried on the breeze: “For I know the plans I have for you, declares Hashem…. plans to give you a future and a hope.”
Her breath caught. Plans, she thought bitterly. Where are they now?
Just then, something brushed against her hand — a flash of soft yellow. She blinked and looked down to see a dandelion puff bobbing lightly against her knuckles. It was ridiculous, absurd even, this tiny sphere of life adrift in a hard, cement world. She cupped it instinctively in her hands. So fragile, and yet it had traveled who-knows-how-far, still intact, still dancing.
Without meaning to, Rivka smiled — just a faint curve at the edge of her mouth, a break in the clouds.
She carefully lifted the dandelion and blew. Tiny seeds loosed themselves into the dusk, sailing upward, fearless against the waiting dark. They didn’t ask where they would land. They simply went.
The memory of her father's voice rose up, as vividly as if he stood beside her again. He used to whisper it to her bedside when she cried over school troubles, over broken friendships: “Hashem will perfect what concerns you,” he would say, quoting from Psalm 138. “The work of His hands, He will not forsake.”
Her throat tightened, but this time it wasn't despair. It was the sudden realization that she wasn’t alone out here. Hashem had seen the crumpled letter. He had felt the sharp twisting of her heart. And even here, He was planting seeds.
Rivka gathered the letter in shaking hands, folded it neatly, and slipped it into her coat pocket. She didn’t know what lay ahead. But for the first time in weeks, the ache in her chest softened just slightly, like earth after the year’s first rain.
When she stood, she breathed deep. Overhead, the first star flickered into being, stubborn against the encroaching night. Rivka whispered a blessing under her breath, almost shyly — a prayer of thanks, of hope, of tentative beginning.
Her story wasn’t over yet.
---
Torah and Tanakh Verses Supporting the Themes:
— This verse directly reflects Rivka’s journey from despair to realizing that G-d still holds a future for her.
— The reassurance that G-d is still at work, even in brokenness, underpins Rivka’s comfort and emotional healing.
— Offers deep assurance of G-d’s abiding presence throughout uncertainty and change.
— Speaks unmistakably to Rivka’s inner transformation from mourning loss to reclaiming quiet hope.
