I wasn’t yet a man by anyone’s measure, but I was old enough to carry water from the well without sloshing it, and that counted for something in the camp. My name? You wouldn’t recognize it, though I stood with the others at the foot of the mountain.
It began the second night after we left Egypt. Moses had us start counting—“From the day after the Sabbath,” he said, “count seven full weeks.” He didn’t explain why, just that G-d had commanded it. That first night, my father drew a line in the dirt beside our tent. “One day of the Omer,” he whispered. I didn't yet ask what it meant.
At first, it felt silly to me—all this counting like children waiting for a festival. We had just escaped Egypt, where we were slaves. Wasn’t that reason enough to celebrate? Why all this focus on counting days?
Around the fourth week, I remember walking past a group of elders as they spoke in hushed tones. “When He gave the manna,” one said, “we woke each morning needing Him. This counting is the same—building hunger for something greater.”
That stuck with me.
It wasn’t until the thirty-first day that I finally asked my mother, “Why are we still counting?” Her hands stilled over her weaving. She looked at me, eyes softer than I’d ever seen them.
“Because we are not ready yet,” she said. “The body left Egypt in a single night, but the heart—it takes time.”
Those words sank into my bones.
The days continued. Each night we marked another line. Each day I found myself watching Moses more closely, listening for signs. He climbed the mountain on the forty-sixth day and came down with his face glowing with purpose. “Prepare yourselves,” he said. “Wash your garments. Be ready by the third day.”
The camp stirred with tension—fear and wonder held hands as we waited. My heart thudded harder than it had during Pharaoh’s chariots, harder than the night of the sea’s parting.
And then, on the fiftieth day, we stood at Mount Sinai. Thunder shook the heavens, and lightning cracked across the sky. The mountain smoked as if burning from within, though no fire could be seen. A shofar blast grew louder and louder until my ears rang with it.
When G-d spoke, His voice filled the world and my chest. “I am the Lord your G-d…”
You ask me what I remember? I remember my knees trembling. I remember gripping my brother’s hand so tight neither of us could feel our fingers. I remember the fear—but I also remember something else.
Belonging.
For the first time, I knew this wasn’t just a journey out of slavery. It was a journey toward something holy. The counting wasn’t just about days. It was about becoming ready.
For Torah. For covenant. For G-d Himself.
Now when I mark those days each year, I remember how we stood, breathless, trembling—and how He came close.
I wasn’t yet a man by anyone’s measure, but I was old enough to carry water from the well without sloshing it, and that counted for something in the camp. My name? You wouldn’t recognize it, though I stood with the others at the foot of the mountain.
It began the second night after we left Egypt. Moses had us start counting—“From the day after the Sabbath,” he said, “count seven full weeks.” He didn’t explain why, just that G-d had commanded it. That first night, my father drew a line in the dirt beside our tent. “One day of the Omer,” he whispered. I didn't yet ask what it meant.
At first, it felt silly to me—all this counting like children waiting for a festival. We had just escaped Egypt, where we were slaves. Wasn’t that reason enough to celebrate? Why all this focus on counting days?
Around the fourth week, I remember walking past a group of elders as they spoke in hushed tones. “When He gave the manna,” one said, “we woke each morning needing Him. This counting is the same—building hunger for something greater.”
That stuck with me.
It wasn’t until the thirty-first day that I finally asked my mother, “Why are we still counting?” Her hands stilled over her weaving. She looked at me, eyes softer than I’d ever seen them.
“Because we are not ready yet,” she said. “The body left Egypt in a single night, but the heart—it takes time.”
Those words sank into my bones.
The days continued. Each night we marked another line. Each day I found myself watching Moses more closely, listening for signs. He climbed the mountain on the forty-sixth day and came down with his face glowing with purpose. “Prepare yourselves,” he said. “Wash your garments. Be ready by the third day.”
The camp stirred with tension—fear and wonder held hands as we waited. My heart thudded harder than it had during Pharaoh’s chariots, harder than the night of the sea’s parting.
And then, on the fiftieth day, we stood at Mount Sinai. Thunder shook the heavens, and lightning cracked across the sky. The mountain smoked as if burning from within, though no fire could be seen. A shofar blast grew louder and louder until my ears rang with it.
When G-d spoke, His voice filled the world and my chest. “I am the Lord your G-d…”
You ask me what I remember? I remember my knees trembling. I remember gripping my brother’s hand so tight neither of us could feel our fingers. I remember the fear—but I also remember something else.
Belonging.
For the first time, I knew this wasn’t just a journey out of slavery. It was a journey toward something holy. The counting wasn’t just about days. It was about becoming ready.
For Torah. For covenant. For G-d Himself.
Now when I mark those days each year, I remember how we stood, breathless, trembling—and how He came close.
