The ground was hot under my feet, though the desert sun had barely reached its full height. I ran barefoot, clutching my tunic with one hand and screaming for help. My younger brother had been bitten by a snake—one of the fiery ones slithering through our camp, striking without warning, leaving many lifeless in the sand.
We were in the wilderness, somewhere between Mount Hor and the land of Edom. The path had grown long, and the people had grown restless. I had heard the grumbling for weeks—against Moses, against God. “Why did He bring us out of Egypt to die here?” they shouted. “There’s no bread! There’s no water!” Anger and hunger twisted their words until even the miracles of the past seemed forgotten.
My name won’t be found in any scroll. I was just a young man standing beside my family’s tent when the serpents came. They moved like fire, their fangs glinting like bronze itself. The first scream I heard wasn’t from my brother—but from my neighbor’s child. Within hours, there were dozens of cries. Mothers, fathers, even the elders lay in the dust. Panic swept through the camp like wind in dry grass.
My brother’s breathing slowed as the venom spread. I held him close, whispering any prayer I could remember. That’s when word spread—Moses had prayed, and God had answered.
I didn’t believe it at first. A copper serpent? On a pole? What could that do? But Moses had followed God’s command: “Make a fiery serpent and set it upon a pole. Whoever looks at it after being bitten shall live.” It sounded strange—an image of the very thing that hurt us? Could it truly heal?
Still, I carried my brother in my arms and rushed with others to the center of camp. There it stood—tall and gleaming in the sun as if lit from within. My brother was barely conscious. I lifted his head toward the bronze serpent.
It happened in silence.
His eyes opened.
Color returned to his cheeks.
He gasped and clutched my arm, and I wept as he sat up, blinking in the light.
I wanted to understand more. Why would God choose this way? Why look at the thing that hurt us?
Later that night, while the camp rested, I sat alone staring at the stars. What if the serpent wasn’t meant to be worshipped—but to remind us? That even when our own words brought pain, when we doubted and fell, God gave us a way to rise again—not through logic, but through faith. Through trust.
Looking up to that copper serpent meant looking beyond ourselves. A moment of surrender. That was the healing.
From that day on, I listened differently. When Moses spoke, I no longer heard only commands—I heard care. I saw the journey not just as a punishment—but as a cleansing fire, teaching us to walk with God, even when we were tired, afraid, or lost.
And maybe that was the lesson.
Even in a wilderness filled with serpents, God still offered healing. All we had to do… was lift our eyes.
The ground was hot under my feet, though the desert sun had barely reached its full height. I ran barefoot, clutching my tunic with one hand and screaming for help. My younger brother had been bitten by a snake—one of the fiery ones slithering through our camp, striking without warning, leaving many lifeless in the sand.
We were in the wilderness, somewhere between Mount Hor and the land of Edom. The path had grown long, and the people had grown restless. I had heard the grumbling for weeks—against Moses, against God. “Why did He bring us out of Egypt to die here?” they shouted. “There’s no bread! There’s no water!” Anger and hunger twisted their words until even the miracles of the past seemed forgotten.
My name won’t be found in any scroll. I was just a young man standing beside my family’s tent when the serpents came. They moved like fire, their fangs glinting like bronze itself. The first scream I heard wasn’t from my brother—but from my neighbor’s child. Within hours, there were dozens of cries. Mothers, fathers, even the elders lay in the dust. Panic swept through the camp like wind in dry grass.
My brother’s breathing slowed as the venom spread. I held him close, whispering any prayer I could remember. That’s when word spread—Moses had prayed, and God had answered.
I didn’t believe it at first. A copper serpent? On a pole? What could that do? But Moses had followed God’s command: “Make a fiery serpent and set it upon a pole. Whoever looks at it after being bitten shall live.” It sounded strange—an image of the very thing that hurt us? Could it truly heal?
Still, I carried my brother in my arms and rushed with others to the center of camp. There it stood—tall and gleaming in the sun as if lit from within. My brother was barely conscious. I lifted his head toward the bronze serpent.
It happened in silence.
His eyes opened.
Color returned to his cheeks.
He gasped and clutched my arm, and I wept as he sat up, blinking in the light.
I wanted to understand more. Why would God choose this way? Why look at the thing that hurt us?
Later that night, while the camp rested, I sat alone staring at the stars. What if the serpent wasn’t meant to be worshipped—but to remind us? That even when our own words brought pain, when we doubted and fell, God gave us a way to rise again—not through logic, but through faith. Through trust.
Looking up to that copper serpent meant looking beyond ourselves. A moment of surrender. That was the healing.
From that day on, I listened differently. When Moses spoke, I no longer heard only commands—I heard care. I saw the journey not just as a punishment—but as a cleansing fire, teaching us to walk with God, even when we were tired, afraid, or lost.
And maybe that was the lesson.
Even in a wilderness filled with serpents, God still offered healing. All we had to do… was lift our eyes.
