I was only twelve the day we left Egypt, but I remember it like it was yesterday. My name is Caleb. Not the famous one—you’re thinking of the brave man who saw the Promised Land. I was just a boy, carrying my little brother on my back and trying not to trip over the hem of my father’s coat. My hands were still sore from packing. My legs shook from walking. But the truth? My heart was the heaviest part of me.
My family had been slaves our whole lives. My grandparents too. Egypt didn’t care how tired we were, how many bricks we made, or how sunburned our skin got. We were like tools—used, never thanked. Then G-d sent Moses. And everything started changing faster than my mind could catch.
I didn’t really understand the plagues at first—frogs, blood, darkness? But then came the final one. The night every eldest son in Egypt died. I thought I might cry for them, but I couldn’t. Not when I remembered the cries our mothers made when their babies were torn from their arms. Not when I finally realized: G-d wasn’t cruel. He was answering centuries of crying.
That night, we put lamb’s blood on our doorposts. Papa held my shoulders and whispered, “This is how G-d will know to pass over us.” I nodded, but inside I kept wondering—what if He didn’t? What if we weren’t good enough?
But He did. We woke up to silence. Then shouting. Then new orders: “Pack. Now.”
So we left. Just like that. Chains off. Bread still flat, no time to rise. I remember the smell of roasted lamb still on my tunic as we walked out of the only home I'd ever known.
Egypt didn’t chase us at first. Maybe they were still too shocked, or maybe they thought we’d come crawling back. But they were wrong. We had no idea where we were going, but we weren’t going back.
Days passed. Hot, windy, endless sand. But a cloud led us by day. A fire by night. I asked my mother once, “Is the fire magic?” She smiled, eyes still puffy from lack of sleep. “No. It’s mercy. G-d is showing us the way.”
But then came the day when we saw Pharaoh’s army again. Chariots cutting through the dust, angry as thunder. My legs stopped moving. I looked ahead—just water. The Red Sea.
Behind us: swords. In front: waves.
Everyone started shouting. “We’re trapped!” “We should’ve stayed in Egypt!” “At least there, we had graves!”
I felt my brother’s tiny fingers digging into my side. He didn’t scream, but I felt his tears soak my shoulder. I squeezed his hand and whispered, “Don’t worry.”
But I was terrified.
Then Moses raised his staff. The same stick I once saw him use to strike a river. And this time? The sea split. Not like a rip in cloth. More like a door creaking open.
The walls of water rose, taller than a temple, and I saw fish swimming sideways, confused as we were amazed. Wind rushed through, drying the sand beneath our feet. Papa grabbed Mama’s hand. I grabbed my brother’s.
And we ran.
I’ll never forget the sound our sandals made—slap, slap—on ocean floor. Or the horses behind us, drawing closer. But we made it through. Every one of us.
When the last sandal stepped onto dry land, the waters thundered closed. Not angry—final. Pharaoh’s army was swallowed whole.
I looked back and felt it—not relief. Not yet. First came the silence. The kind that makes you realize something massive has ended and something even bigger has just begun.
I used to think freedom meant no more work. No more masters. But I was wrong. Freedom means trust. It means following even when you don’t know where you're going. It means daring to believe G-d still leads you, even when the map is nothing but sky and sand.
I didn’t get my strength from Moses or the fire or the sea that split. I found it when I realized G-d didn’t just rescue us. He stayed with us. Every step, every night. Even now.
That day, I stopped thinking like a slave. I started walking like someone who was truly free.
I was only twelve the day we left Egypt, but I remember it like it was yesterday. My name is Caleb. Not the famous one—you’re thinking of the brave man who saw the Promised Land. I was just a boy, carrying my little brother on my back and trying not to trip over the hem of my father’s coat. My hands were still sore from packing. My legs shook from walking. But the truth? My heart was the heaviest part of me.
My family had been slaves our whole lives. My grandparents too. Egypt didn’t care how tired we were, how many bricks we made, or how sunburned our skin got. We were like tools—used, never thanked. Then G-d sent Moses. And everything started changing faster than my mind could catch.
I didn’t really understand the plagues at first—frogs, blood, darkness? But then came the final one. The night every eldest son in Egypt died. I thought I might cry for them, but I couldn’t. Not when I remembered the cries our mothers made when their babies were torn from their arms. Not when I finally realized: G-d wasn’t cruel. He was answering centuries of crying.
That night, we put lamb’s blood on our doorposts. Papa held my shoulders and whispered, “This is how G-d will know to pass over us.” I nodded, but inside I kept wondering—what if He didn’t? What if we weren’t good enough?
But He did. We woke up to silence. Then shouting. Then new orders: “Pack. Now.”
So we left. Just like that. Chains off. Bread still flat, no time to rise. I remember the smell of roasted lamb still on my tunic as we walked out of the only home I'd ever known.
Egypt didn’t chase us at first. Maybe they were still too shocked, or maybe they thought we’d come crawling back. But they were wrong. We had no idea where we were going, but we weren’t going back.
Days passed. Hot, windy, endless sand. But a cloud led us by day. A fire by night. I asked my mother once, “Is the fire magic?” She smiled, eyes still puffy from lack of sleep. “No. It’s mercy. G-d is showing us the way.”
But then came the day when we saw Pharaoh’s army again. Chariots cutting through the dust, angry as thunder. My legs stopped moving. I looked ahead—just water. The Red Sea.
Behind us: swords. In front: waves.
Everyone started shouting. “We’re trapped!” “We should’ve stayed in Egypt!” “At least there, we had graves!”
I felt my brother’s tiny fingers digging into my side. He didn’t scream, but I felt his tears soak my shoulder. I squeezed his hand and whispered, “Don’t worry.”
But I was terrified.
Then Moses raised his staff. The same stick I once saw him use to strike a river. And this time? The sea split. Not like a rip in cloth. More like a door creaking open.
The walls of water rose, taller than a temple, and I saw fish swimming sideways, confused as we were amazed. Wind rushed through, drying the sand beneath our feet. Papa grabbed Mama’s hand. I grabbed my brother’s.
And we ran.
I’ll never forget the sound our sandals made—slap, slap—on ocean floor. Or the horses behind us, drawing closer. But we made it through. Every one of us.
When the last sandal stepped onto dry land, the waters thundered closed. Not angry—final. Pharaoh’s army was swallowed whole.
I looked back and felt it—not relief. Not yet. First came the silence. The kind that makes you realize something massive has ended and something even bigger has just begun.
I used to think freedom meant no more work. No more masters. But I was wrong. Freedom means trust. It means following even when you don’t know where you're going. It means daring to believe G-d still leads you, even when the map is nothing but sky and sand.
I didn’t get my strength from Moses or the fire or the sea that split. I found it when I realized G-d didn’t just rescue us. He stayed with us. Every step, every night. Even now.
That day, I stopped thinking like a slave. I started walking like someone who was truly free.
