You wouldn’t recognize me—no title, no fame—but I was among the ones who walked out of Egypt with trembling feet and hope rising in our chests.
We had just left slavery behind. Egypt—the land that beat our backs and stole our children—had finally opened its gates. Moses, the man chosen by G-d, led us out with strength and fire in his voice. But once we passed the city walls, freedom felt like standing at the edge of a sea you’ve never seen before. Beautiful. Terrifying.
That first night in the wilderness, I couldn’t sleep. My children were curled beside me on cracked blankets, worn from hurried packing. My wife rested lightly, her arm draped across the smallest one. I walked a bit away from camp and looked at the sky, trying to understand where we were going. I had no answer.
Then I saw it for the first time—the fiery column. It rose high, like an eternal flame licking the stars. It didn't burn anything around it. It simply stood, watching. Guiding.
“Do you see it?” someone whispered from behind me. It was an older man I’d worked beside years ago building Egypt’s storehouses.
“It’s from G-d,” I said. The words came out softer than I expected. “He's with us.”
By day, a cloud had begun to lead us—thick and bright even under the hot sun, drifting in front of the camp. At night, it was flame. The fire warmed us, drove away wild animals, and gave light so the camp could walk even in darkness.
At first, I didn’t trust it. I kept looking around for roads, for signs, for anything familiar. But the desert obeyed no maps, and the cloud never took straight paths. Still, Moses followed it without question. We all did.
One afternoon, the cloud led us toward a canyon. The land grew steep; the heat pressed in. Some started complaining, saying maybe Egypt hadn’t been so bad. Maybe we had made a mistake. I was among them.
“If He really cared, why lead us into heat and cliffs?” I muttered. “Why not a clear road?”
That night, the column of fire blazed stronger than ever. I sat on a rock, watching it, ashamed. My son, just ten, touched my shoulder. “Abba,” he said, “even when it looks hard, He’s still showing us the way. That means we’re not lost, right?”
I had no answer at first. Then I looked at the fire, steady and bright against the darkness. We may not have known the way, but G-d never left us unsure of His presence.
From that moment on, I stopped walking with fear. I still didn't understand every step. But I no longer needed to. Wherever the cloud moved, I followed. Wherever the fire led, I trusted.
Because even in a land without paths, G-d made one.
You wouldn’t recognize me—no title, no fame—but I was among the ones who walked out of Egypt with trembling feet and hope rising in our chests.
We had just left slavery behind. Egypt—the land that beat our backs and stole our children—had finally opened its gates. Moses, the man chosen by G-d, led us out with strength and fire in his voice. But once we passed the city walls, freedom felt like standing at the edge of a sea you’ve never seen before. Beautiful. Terrifying.
That first night in the wilderness, I couldn’t sleep. My children were curled beside me on cracked blankets, worn from hurried packing. My wife rested lightly, her arm draped across the smallest one. I walked a bit away from camp and looked at the sky, trying to understand where we were going. I had no answer.
Then I saw it for the first time—the fiery column. It rose high, like an eternal flame licking the stars. It didn't burn anything around it. It simply stood, watching. Guiding.
“Do you see it?” someone whispered from behind me. It was an older man I’d worked beside years ago building Egypt’s storehouses.
“It’s from G-d,” I said. The words came out softer than I expected. “He's with us.”
By day, a cloud had begun to lead us—thick and bright even under the hot sun, drifting in front of the camp. At night, it was flame. The fire warmed us, drove away wild animals, and gave light so the camp could walk even in darkness.
At first, I didn’t trust it. I kept looking around for roads, for signs, for anything familiar. But the desert obeyed no maps, and the cloud never took straight paths. Still, Moses followed it without question. We all did.
One afternoon, the cloud led us toward a canyon. The land grew steep; the heat pressed in. Some started complaining, saying maybe Egypt hadn’t been so bad. Maybe we had made a mistake. I was among them.
“If He really cared, why lead us into heat and cliffs?” I muttered. “Why not a clear road?”
That night, the column of fire blazed stronger than ever. I sat on a rock, watching it, ashamed. My son, just ten, touched my shoulder. “Abba,” he said, “even when it looks hard, He’s still showing us the way. That means we’re not lost, right?”
I had no answer at first. Then I looked at the fire, steady and bright against the darkness. We may not have known the way, but G-d never left us unsure of His presence.
From that moment on, I stopped walking with fear. I still didn't understand every step. But I no longer needed to. Wherever the cloud moved, I followed. Wherever the fire led, I trusted.
Because even in a land without paths, G-d made one.
