Diaries of a Damsel in Distress

She roams the room like a caged lion. Her back is stooped, heavy with the weight of the world. With crazed eyes and a heart possessed, she runs from window to window. Maybe here is the sunshine; maybe here is G‑d’s mercy.

She runs and runs, until she cannot run anymore. The tears that have stained her face leave traces with her footsteps.

She looks into the mirror. Esther, why so pale? Her cheeks are sunken; her eyes are dark with fear. Her bent frame wrenches to the rhythm of her cries—cries that no one can hear, that no one can understand.

Her silence screams the questions that haunt her soul. How to save her people from the royal decree? She had to visit the king. She knew it to be the only way. But how could she? She hadn’t seen the king in recent days, and who knows what his mood would be?

But the fate of her people rested on her shoulders. She knew that also. How could she not do anything?

O dear G‑d, what do You want from me? What am I to do?

She turns to her balcony and steps into the daylight. The city lies at her feet. The tiny houses stretching as far as the eye could see.

It all looked so small. Dear G‑d, You have created this city, You have created this people, and You have been here all this time. Father of orphans, how can You not answer the cry of the orphaned? Can You not taste the bitter tears of the widowed? Of the children whose pure lips sing your praise?

Dear G‑d, I am an orphan. Will you hear my cry?

She throws her arms heavenward, her eyes searching for that glimmer of hope. The tears flow freely now; she bothers not to stop them. A defeated silence seeps into the room. The ceiling, the walls and the tapestries all colored with its despair.

She lowers her head, her hair dangling in surrender. Dear G‑d, I am afraid. I am afraid of Ahaseurus. Dear Father of orphans, stand by the right side of this orphan and grant me success. Remember me; I am Your daughter in Israel.

Slowly the sun peeks through the clouds, cautious yet bold. The soft sunshine taps at her window in the king’s palace. She hears the knocking but refuses to acknowledge it. The sunshine crawls into the room and stares at her. She lifts her head, enough to feel its warmth, enough to hear its message. She knows what she must do, and she knows she is not alone.

She would approach the king. Only G‑d could help her, and to Him she would pray. He had helped them before; He wept too by the rivers of Babylon, and He had whispered of redemption. Surely He would not forsake them now.

I will go, as I have promised Mordechai.

Dear G‑d, please grant me success. Only You can deliver us—not I, not Queen Esther, not even my fairness.

I will fast. I will show my people that beauty will not win Ahasuerus’s favor.

I will fast. I will pray. And G‑d will deliver us.