“Some called me a leather-worker, but in the camps of Israel, I was mostly just ‘Tzalli’s son.’”
That’s how I was known when we stood in the plains of Moav—just beyond the Jordan River, across from Jericho. It was the fortieth year since we left Egypt, and even though I wasn’t born then, the story lived in my bones.
The morning Moses called us to gather, I had been scraping animal hides outside my family’s tent. My hands still smelled of tallow and ash when I heard his voice rise through the camp. It wasn’t like before, when he gave us laws or instructions. This time, he spoke like a father about to leave his children.
He stood tall, but older than I had ever seen him. The sun caught the lines on his face like cracks in dried earth. Around me, men and women pressed closer, even the children fell silent.
“You are standing here today,” he began, voice firm, “all of you before the Lord your God—your elders, your officers, your children, your water-drawers and wood-choppers.”
I glanced at my father beside me. His jaw tightened with the same pride I felt rising in my chest. Moses was binding us, all of us, into a covenant—not just those who had lived through the Red Sea and Sinai, but us, born in the wilderness, raised under clouds of glory.
Moses reminded us of everything—how God led us through trials, how our sandals didn’t wear out, how He protected us from the nations who rose against us. But then his voice grew stern, warning us not to follow the idols of the land we would soon enter.
He said, “Lest there be among you a man or woman… whose heart turns away today from the Lord our God… and walks in stubbornness.”
Those words struck me hard. The wilderness raised us to trust manna and miracle, but now giants waited across the Jordan, battles we had never seen. I had been proud to be part of the new generation, but now fear crept in. Would we stay faithful? Or forget everything we had learned wandering among the sand and stars?
Afterward, when the assembly broke up, I sat alone near the edge of camp, the hills of Moav shadowing our open tents. I ran my hand over rough leather, my unfinished sandals beside me. That’s when it came to me—this covenant, this promise, wasn’t dusty history. It was mine now. Not something handed down, but something I had to carry forward.
I wasn’t just Tzalli’s son anymore. I was a witness. A keeper of the vow renewed in Moav.
Somehow, that changed everything.
“Some called me a leather-worker, but in the camps of Israel, I was mostly just ‘Tzalli’s son.’”
That’s how I was known when we stood in the plains of Moav—just beyond the Jordan River, across from Jericho. It was the fortieth year since we left Egypt, and even though I wasn’t born then, the story lived in my bones.
The morning Moses called us to gather, I had been scraping animal hides outside my family’s tent. My hands still smelled of tallow and ash when I heard his voice rise through the camp. It wasn’t like before, when he gave us laws or instructions. This time, he spoke like a father about to leave his children.
He stood tall, but older than I had ever seen him. The sun caught the lines on his face like cracks in dried earth. Around me, men and women pressed closer, even the children fell silent.
“You are standing here today,” he began, voice firm, “all of you before the Lord your God—your elders, your officers, your children, your water-drawers and wood-choppers.”
I glanced at my father beside me. His jaw tightened with the same pride I felt rising in my chest. Moses was binding us, all of us, into a covenant—not just those who had lived through the Red Sea and Sinai, but us, born in the wilderness, raised under clouds of glory.
Moses reminded us of everything—how God led us through trials, how our sandals didn’t wear out, how He protected us from the nations who rose against us. But then his voice grew stern, warning us not to follow the idols of the land we would soon enter.
He said, “Lest there be among you a man or woman… whose heart turns away today from the Lord our God… and walks in stubbornness.”
Those words struck me hard. The wilderness raised us to trust manna and miracle, but now giants waited across the Jordan, battles we had never seen. I had been proud to be part of the new generation, but now fear crept in. Would we stay faithful? Or forget everything we had learned wandering among the sand and stars?
Afterward, when the assembly broke up, I sat alone near the edge of camp, the hills of Moav shadowing our open tents. I ran my hand over rough leather, my unfinished sandals beside me. That’s when it came to me—this covenant, this promise, wasn’t dusty history. It was mine now. Not something handed down, but something I had to carry forward.
I wasn’t just Tzalli’s son anymore. I was a witness. A keeper of the vow renewed in Moav.
Somehow, that changed everything.
