The winter wind tugged at Yael’s scarf as she stood at the edge of the town, her boots half-sunk in the slushy road. The map she clutched in frozen hands was useless — the ink smeared, the lines meaningless. She had thought she knew the path ahead: marriage, family business, quiet certainty. Instead, the engagement had faded like mist, and the offer to take over the bakery had been given to her cousin without a second thought.
For the first time in her life, Yael realized she had no idea where she was going.
A few steps forward, and then she stopped, dazed by the thick weight of not knowing. All around her, the world seemed certain: rooftops cozy under snow, smoke curling contentedly from chimneys. Only she was adrift, standing in the cold.
She pressed her hand to her heart. “Ribbono Shel Olam,” she whispered into the wind, feeling foolish and desperate, “I don't know where You're leading me. I can't even see the next step.”
The road ahead stretched gray and empty, like a dream missing its ending. Tears welled unexpectedly. She blinked them away, angry at herself for feeling so small. Hadn’t she always believed that G-d had a plan? Hadn’t she prayed that very morning?
She heard a shout and turned. A boy, maybe six years old, stood a few paces away, waving at her. His jacket hung crooked, and his wool hat barely covered his ears. In his grimy hand, he held up a tiny, misshapen snowball triumphantly.
“For you!” he called out, beaming.
Yael laughed despite herself, catching the snowball he tossed. It was clumsy and half-melted, but warm in the way only a child’s gift could be. She kneeled in the snow to thank him, and he pressed another lump into her hand — this one a lopsided heart.
“My ima says,” he declared, nose running, “that Hashem shows you the way a little bit at a time. Like when you walk with a little flashlight — only the next step lights up!”
Then, just as suddenly as he’d appeared, he scampered off, his boots making squelching noises in the fresh snow.
For a long moment, Yael stayed kneeling, snow soaking into her jeans, clutching the melting heart. Something inside her thawed with it — the clenching fear, the bitterness.
Maybe she didn’t need to see the whole road.
She stood slowly, pocketing the tiny wet heart. The wind carried the scent of fresh-baked bread from somewhere — warm, yeasty, sweet. Her stomach grumbled, and she laughed again, more freely this time.
A verse flickered from memory: "Your word is a lamp to my feet, a light for my path." (Tehillim 119:105).
It didn’t say a spotlight, she realized with a gulp of cold air. It said a lamp — enough to see the next step, not the whole journey.
She turned toward the smell of bread, pulling her scarf tighter and stepping into the slush. She didn’t know where she'd end up. But for now, there was one clear step: warmth, kindness, nourishment. The rest would come.
Yael smiled up at the gray sky, feeling the hollow ache inside her ease just slightly. She wasn’t as lost as she thought. Somewhere beyond what she could see, the road was already there — waiting, woven by hands much wiser than her own.
And she wasn’t walking it alone.
——
Supporting Torah and Tanakh Verses:
The winter wind tugged at Yael’s scarf as she stood at the edge of the town, her boots half-sunk in the slushy road. The map she clutched in frozen hands was useless — the ink smeared, the lines meaningless. She had thought she knew the path ahead: marriage, family business, quiet certainty. Instead, the engagement had faded like mist, and the offer to take over the bakery had been given to her cousin without a second thought.
For the first time in her life, Yael realized she had no idea where she was going.
A few steps forward, and then she stopped, dazed by the thick weight of not knowing. All around her, the world seemed certain: rooftops cozy under snow, smoke curling contentedly from chimneys. Only she was adrift, standing in the cold.
She pressed her hand to her heart. “Ribbono Shel Olam,” she whispered into the wind, feeling foolish and desperate, “I don't know where You're leading me. I can't even see the next step.”
The road ahead stretched gray and empty, like a dream missing its ending. Tears welled unexpectedly. She blinked them away, angry at herself for feeling so small. Hadn’t she always believed that G-d had a plan? Hadn’t she prayed that very morning?
She heard a shout and turned. A boy, maybe six years old, stood a few paces away, waving at her. His jacket hung crooked, and his wool hat barely covered his ears. In his grimy hand, he held up a tiny, misshapen snowball triumphantly.
“For you!” he called out, beaming.
Yael laughed despite herself, catching the snowball he tossed. It was clumsy and half-melted, but warm in the way only a child’s gift could be. She kneeled in the snow to thank him, and he pressed another lump into her hand — this one a lopsided heart.
“My ima says,” he declared, nose running, “that Hashem shows you the way a little bit at a time. Like when you walk with a little flashlight — only the next step lights up!”
Then, just as suddenly as he’d appeared, he scampered off, his boots making squelching noises in the fresh snow.
For a long moment, Yael stayed kneeling, snow soaking into her jeans, clutching the melting heart. Something inside her thawed with it — the clenching fear, the bitterness.
Maybe she didn’t need to see the whole road.
She stood slowly, pocketing the tiny wet heart. The wind carried the scent of fresh-baked bread from somewhere — warm, yeasty, sweet. Her stomach grumbled, and she laughed again, more freely this time.
A verse flickered from memory: "Your word is a lamp to my feet, a light for my path." (Tehillim 119:105).
It didn’t say a spotlight, she realized with a gulp of cold air. It said a lamp — enough to see the next step, not the whole journey.
She turned toward the smell of bread, pulling her scarf tighter and stepping into the slush. She didn’t know where she'd end up. But for now, there was one clear step: warmth, kindness, nourishment. The rest would come.
Yael smiled up at the gray sky, feeling the hollow ache inside her ease just slightly. She wasn’t as lost as she thought. Somewhere beyond what she could see, the road was already there — waiting, woven by hands much wiser than her own.
And she wasn’t walking it alone.
——
Supporting Torah and Tanakh Verses:
