Epilogue | Remain in Me
Many years passed since the day I saw the risen Lord. Since He said to me: I am the Vine. Remain in Me, and you will bear much fruit.
But I carried His words with me all those years, living my life to glorify Him. And after James died, and I nearly drowned in heartbreak, I dedicated myself to the calling even more. Living every day, every moment for the glory of God’s kingdom, and in my husband’s memory.
The vineyard changed. And so did I.
It was full—not only of fruit, the rows thick with it, heavy and sweet beneath the sun—but of life. Children’s voices rose where silence once pressed too close. Small feet ran between the rows, careless and quick, reaching for what was not yet ready, laughing when they were corrected.
I watched them sometimes from the edge of the terrace, my hands resting on the worn stone, and I saw both what was and what had been.
Lavi’s sons were the loudest. Strong, restless, always climbing where they should not.
His daughters would linger closer to the house, though not nearly as quietly as they believed.
His wife moved among them with a patience I had come to admire—quiet, capable, rooted in a way that reminded me of what I once had to learn.
And me—I was savta now.
The word still caught me off guard when it was spoken, though I had heard it more times than I could count. It met me differently each time—warm, unexpected, undeserved.
A gift I had not known to ask for.
~
Abba was gone now. He had grown quieter toward the end, though his eyes never lost their clarity. In his final days, he spoke little of the vineyard, and more of mercy.
That was how I remembered him. Not as he had been for so many years—but as he became.
Word came not long after Abba died that his brother, Uncle Eleazar, had passed as well. We had never reconciled.
For a time, that truth lingered in me, heavy and unresolved. Not the sharp ache of loss, but something quieter. A question with no answer. In the end, I laid it down. There are some things we are not given the chance to mend. But I trusted that the Lord was not bound by what we leave unfinished.
~
Baruch, somehow, remained. Older than reason would suggest, and more convinced of it with each passing year.
“I am older than Methuselah,” he had told one of the boys the day before.
The boy believed him, and I did not correct it.
He still rose early, and still complained about it. Still walked the rows. Still spoke more than necessary, but listened more than he once had.
Time had done its work in him too.
~
The world beyond the vineyard had not grown quieter. If anything, it had widened.
There were more now—more believers, more gatherings, more voices carrying the story farther than I once thought possible. Names reached us still, carried by travelers and traders alike.
Peter, John, Paul… Others I would never meet this side of heaven.
They went where we could not.
They spoke what we once struggled to understand.
They suffered.
They endured.
And James was not the last to lay down his life for it.
Still—the message did not fade. It took root.
~
We understood more now than we had then. Not everything, but enough.
He was not taken from us, rather He gave Himself.
Like the lambs we once offered—only once, and for all.
Perfect.
Willing.
For us.
For me.
The thought no longer confused me.
It humbled me.
~
I came to understand more about grief in the years that followed. And what sometimes took root beneath it.
Some of it I learned slowly.
There were still moments—unexpected, unbidden—when it rose up again.
Not as it once had, consuming everything in its path, but deep enough to take hold if I let it.
It would whisper what was not mine to carry.
That it was not fair.
That he was taken too soon.
That no child of ours remained to bear his name.
That I had been forgotten.
Or worse—that I had been deliberately passed over.
But I had not been left empty.
I had been given James.
And Lavi. Grandchildren.
A house filled with life.
Friends who became sisters.
I had been given more than enough.
Those voices whispered something different. I knew them now—and I knew what they were.
They were not from the Lord.
There is an accuser—one who twists what is true until it no longer resembles life. I had heard him.
But I did not let his words remain.
When those voices surfaced, I turned back to the Lord, as I had learned to do—again and again—until truth stood firm once more.
I prayed, even when the words felt empty.
I returned to what was written until I remembered.
And I did not remain alone with my thoughts.
Those same voices had come in the silence that followed loss—bending truth, hollowing out hope, turning my gaze inward instead of toward the Lord.
I learned that.
And I learned this also—
He does not leave us there in the dark, if we turn back to Him.
~
I still spoke to James.
Not because I believed he lingered here, but because love did not end simply because a voice was no longer heard.
I told him about the vineyard, about the harvests, about the way Lavi stood now—strong, grounded, as though he had always been meant for it.
About our grandchildren.
I told him they remembered.
That his name was still spoken.
That what he gave his life for did not end with him.
~
At dusk, I walked the rows more slowly than I once had.
Lavi liked to remind me I no longer needed to keep working the vines myself—that I had earned my rest long ago.
But the work had become as natural to me as breathing.
My hands, though not as strong, still remembered it. And the vines responded as they always had—patient, faithful, asking only what they always had: care, time, trust.
Ima’s bracelet rested against my wrist, worn smooth with years. It caught the last light as the sun dipped low, glinting softly.
Once, it reminded me of what I had lost.
Now—it reminded me of what the Lord had restored.
I sat beneath the fig tree as evening came over the sky.
The air was warm, alive with the hum of crickets and the distant echo of children being called inside. The vineyard breathed around me—constant, enduring, full.
And for a moment I was still.
Then I bowed my head.
And prayed…
Yahweh Shalom. The Lord is peace.
You have been my peace.
Through storm and silence, through grief and growth, through all the years I did not understand and the ones I no longer need to.
Thank You for the man who led me to You.
For the years we were given.
For the legacy that did not end with his death.
For the children who now run through these rows, not yet understanding the cost that made their faith possible.
Let me live what remains of my days with the same devotion he carried.
Not louder, not greater, but faithfully.
Let every vine I tend, every word I speak, every life I touch bear witness to You.
The breeze moved through the rows again, soft and even. I lifted my eyes to the horizon, where the last of the day’s light was beginning to fade.
You took a heart bound in law and taught it to live in love.
You showed me obedience is not about rules, but about trust. That holiness is not something earned—it is something given.
Toda Elohim. Thank you God—for opening my eyes, for letting me see. I hope You know I always loved You—even when I was confused about how to.
You have been my safety in the storm, my refuge, my Teacher when I thought I already knew.
May every word I speak, every seed I plant, bear the reflection of a heart changed by Your mercy. Let those who meet me see Your light—not my strength, but Yours.
You are the true Vine, and I am only the branch—but I bear what fruit You give, and I will praise You all my life.
The breeze stirred the rows again, whispering against the leaves. I looked back toward the horizon, where the last gold of evening faded into blue.
“Yahweh Shalom,” I whispered again.
And I knew—the peace I had been searching for was never far. It was waiting for me here, in the land that bore my tears, in the vines that carried my story, in the hands He redeemed to tend them. I had come full circle—not back to what I was, but home to who He made me to be.
For the Vine that healed the vineyard also healed my heart, intertwining His life through mine until His peace became the very air I breathed.
I drew in a breath—Yah—
and let it out—Weh…
Yahweh Shalom.
You are my perfect peace.
Remain in me, as I remain in You.