I was a rope-maker in Egypt, nothing more. My hands were always stained with dye and sweat, knotting thick cords for chariots I was never meant to ride. You wouldn’t have noticed me among the crowds that day, squeezed between frightened families and men gripping staves with shaking hands. But I was there—standing at the edge of the Red Sea, with nothing behind but Pharaoh’s army and nothing ahead but water.
We had just fled Egypt—the land where my grandfather was born a slave, and where I expected to die one. But then Moses came, sent by God, and everything changed. Ten plagues tore through the land, and finally, Pharaoh let us go. I should have felt free. I didn’t.
Freedom, it turns out, isn’t light. It’s heavy. When I left Egypt, I carried more than my sack of ropes—I carried doubt.
That morning, the sand burned underfoot, and I could feel the thrum of hooves behind us. Word spread quickly: Pharaoh had changed his mind. His armies were chasing us down with chariots and swords. Some screamed. Some prayed. Others turned on Moses. “Were there not enough graves in Egypt that you brought us here to die?” they shouted.
I just stood there, grip tightening around the rope in my hand like it could tether me to something solid.
Moses didn’t shout back. He faced the sea. And then he raised his staff.
The moment stretched like one of my cords right before it snaps. And then—wind. A great howling wind churned the sea until the waters lifted, rising like walls on either side, leaving a path of seafloor exposed between them.
I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. My son tugged at my robe, eyes wide with fear. “Abba,” he whispered, “what if it falls?”
I had no answer. My knees were trembling. My mouth felt dry. But suddenly, I thought of every time God had shown His power over Pharaoh: the Nile turned to blood, locusts that darkened the sky, the final, crushing plague. Was the God who did all that going to bring us this far just to let the sea drown us?
I looked down at my rope. So many knots tied in fear. But faith, I realized, is stepping forward even when your hands still shake.
“Come,” I told my son, and we stepped into the dry seabed.
The walls of water loomed above us, restless but unmoving. Behind, I heard cries—Pharaoh's army closing in. But ahead, people were walking, inch by inch, believing with each step that the God who parted water could carry them through it.
When we reached the other side, the sun was rising. I turned just in time to see the last of the Israelites cross safely—then the water roared closed, swallowing the chariots and horsemen in a single crashing wave.
That day, I didn’t just witness a miracle. I learned what it means to trust. Not because I wasn’t afraid—but because, in spite of my fear, I walked forward. And God held the waters back.
I was a rope-maker in Egypt, nothing more. My hands were always stained with dye and sweat, knotting thick cords for chariots I was never meant to ride. You wouldn’t have noticed me among the crowds that day, squeezed between frightened families and men gripping staves with shaking hands. But I was there—standing at the edge of the Red Sea, with nothing behind but Pharaoh’s army and nothing ahead but water.
We had just fled Egypt—the land where my grandfather was born a slave, and where I expected to die one. But then Moses came, sent by God, and everything changed. Ten plagues tore through the land, and finally, Pharaoh let us go. I should have felt free. I didn’t.
Freedom, it turns out, isn’t light. It’s heavy. When I left Egypt, I carried more than my sack of ropes—I carried doubt.
That morning, the sand burned underfoot, and I could feel the thrum of hooves behind us. Word spread quickly: Pharaoh had changed his mind. His armies were chasing us down with chariots and swords. Some screamed. Some prayed. Others turned on Moses. “Were there not enough graves in Egypt that you brought us here to die?” they shouted.
I just stood there, grip tightening around the rope in my hand like it could tether me to something solid.
Moses didn’t shout back. He faced the sea. And then he raised his staff.
The moment stretched like one of my cords right before it snaps. And then—wind. A great howling wind churned the sea until the waters lifted, rising like walls on either side, leaving a path of seafloor exposed between them.
I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. My son tugged at my robe, eyes wide with fear. “Abba,” he whispered, “what if it falls?”
I had no answer. My knees were trembling. My mouth felt dry. But suddenly, I thought of every time God had shown His power over Pharaoh: the Nile turned to blood, locusts that darkened the sky, the final, crushing plague. Was the God who did all that going to bring us this far just to let the sea drown us?
I looked down at my rope. So many knots tied in fear. But faith, I realized, is stepping forward even when your hands still shake.
“Come,” I told my son, and we stepped into the dry seabed.
The walls of water loomed above us, restless but unmoving. Behind, I heard cries—Pharaoh's army closing in. But ahead, people were walking, inch by inch, believing with each step that the God who parted water could carry them through it.
When we reached the other side, the sun was rising. I turned just in time to see the last of the Israelites cross safely—then the water roared closed, swallowing the chariots and horsemen in a single crashing wave.
That day, I didn’t just witness a miracle. I learned what it means to trust. Not because I wasn’t afraid—but because, in spite of my fear, I walked forward. And God held the waters back.
