It began with a sound—so deep and rolling it rattled my bones. I was holding tightly to the hem of my father's robe, my legs stiff with fear, as the mountain before us—Mount Sinai—thundered with fire, smoke, and the voice of God.
My name is Eliav, son of a former slave. I was twelve years old when we stood at the base of that mountain. We had left Egypt just weeks before, our backs still aching from bricks and burdens. Now, there we stood, free but shaken, unsure what would come next.
That morning, my father had told me, “Today, Eliav, we are going to see something no other people have seen. God is going to speak directly to us.”
I didn’t believe him.
But as the trumpets sounded louder—without a person to blow them—and as Moses climbed the mountain and disappeared into the thick cloud, I began to believe everything.
We were told not to touch the mountain. Not even an animal was allowed near it, or it would be put to death. Fear wrapped itself around my chest. This wasn’t like Egypt. This was something different—holy, terrifying, real.
Then the words came. Powerful, loud, and clear like thunder—but not thunder. They were words. Words I understood. Each one struck like a hammer into stone:
“I am the Lord your God, Who brought you out of the land of Egypt, from the house of slavery…”
Every soul stood still. No one spoke. Fathers covered the ears of little ones. Some turned their faces to the ground. But I couldn’t look away. My eyes stared straight into the fiery cloud, my heart burning with something I didn’t yet have the words to name.
We were hearing the Ten Commandments directly from God.
Afterward, the people begged Moses, “You speak to us, and we will listen. But let not God speak to us again, lest we die.” My father agreed. He didn't speak much on the way back to our tent.
Later that day, our leaders, including my uncle Nadav, went up with Moses and saw a vision of God—a paved surface beneath His feet, like ice and sky all at once. My uncle didn’t talk about it much when he came back. Just cried.
Then Moses returned alone to the mountain, to seal the covenant. He stayed there for forty days to receive the tablets.
I remember watching the blood being sprinkled on the altar and on the people, sealing the pact. “All that the Lord has spoken, we will do and we will listen,” the people had declared. It was a moment I didn't fully understand back then.
But now, years later, I see it: That day wasn’t just about laws. It was about a promise—a relationship between God and us. He chose us, out of all peoples, to carry His words. And we said yes, even when we didn’t fully understand. That covenant shaped who we are. It shaped who I became.
Sinai didn’t just echo with thunder. It echoed with belonging.
It began with a sound—so deep and rolling it rattled my bones. I was holding tightly to the hem of my father's robe, my legs stiff with fear, as the mountain before us—Mount Sinai—thundered with fire, smoke, and the voice of God.
My name is Eliav, son of a former slave. I was twelve years old when we stood at the base of that mountain. We had left Egypt just weeks before, our backs still aching from bricks and burdens. Now, there we stood, free but shaken, unsure what would come next.
That morning, my father had told me, “Today, Eliav, we are going to see something no other people have seen. God is going to speak directly to us.”
I didn’t believe him.
But as the trumpets sounded louder—without a person to blow them—and as Moses climbed the mountain and disappeared into the thick cloud, I began to believe everything.
We were told not to touch the mountain. Not even an animal was allowed near it, or it would be put to death. Fear wrapped itself around my chest. This wasn’t like Egypt. This was something different—holy, terrifying, real.
Then the words came. Powerful, loud, and clear like thunder—but not thunder. They were words. Words I understood. Each one struck like a hammer into stone:
“I am the Lord your God, Who brought you out of the land of Egypt, from the house of slavery…”
Every soul stood still. No one spoke. Fathers covered the ears of little ones. Some turned their faces to the ground. But I couldn’t look away. My eyes stared straight into the fiery cloud, my heart burning with something I didn’t yet have the words to name.
We were hearing the Ten Commandments directly from God.
Afterward, the people begged Moses, “You speak to us, and we will listen. But let not God speak to us again, lest we die.” My father agreed. He didn't speak much on the way back to our tent.
Later that day, our leaders, including my uncle Nadav, went up with Moses and saw a vision of God—a paved surface beneath His feet, like ice and sky all at once. My uncle didn’t talk about it much when he came back. Just cried.
Then Moses returned alone to the mountain, to seal the covenant. He stayed there for forty days to receive the tablets.
I remember watching the blood being sprinkled on the altar and on the people, sealing the pact. “All that the Lord has spoken, we will do and we will listen,” the people had declared. It was a moment I didn't fully understand back then.
But now, years later, I see it: That day wasn’t just about laws. It was about a promise—a relationship between God and us. He chose us, out of all peoples, to carry His words. And we said yes, even when we didn’t fully understand. That covenant shaped who we are. It shaped who I became.
Sinai didn’t just echo with thunder. It echoed with belonging.
