They called him Moses. We called him our shepherd.
I was seventeen when he climbed the mountain for the last time. My name doesn’t matter—but I was there, standing near the edge of the camp as he gathered us tribe by tribe, blessing each one with a voice that cracked like dry leaves but carried the weight of the heavens.
I was just a boy when we left Egypt, still small enough to be carried on my father’s back when we crossed through walls of water at the Red Sea. I don’t remember the pain of slavery, but I remember the wilderness, the hunger, the fear—and Moses. He was always there. Holding us together.
And now he stood before us, his staff trembling in his hand. His eyes didn’t dim, but they carried something else: a sadness I'd never seen before. This wasn’t like the time he’d struck the rock in frustration. No, this sadness felt deeper. It was goodbye.
He began with Reuben and moved down the line. When he reached my tribe—Zebulun—he looked directly at me. Maybe it was just imagination, but I swear he saw me. “Rejoice, Zebulun,” he said, “in your going out…”
I didn’t understand the words. Not right away. But they stirred something deep inside of me. Our tribe hadn’t done anything special. We weren’t warriors like Judah, we didn’t carry the sacred Ark like the Levites. Yet he spoke to all of us, and every word was full of love. Every blessing—even the ones that mentioned our faults—was a thread in a great garment he was leaving behind.
I didn't cry when he died. Not right away. Instead, I felt empty, like someone had pulled the sky down and left only clouds.
It wasn’t until three days later, when a younger cousin tripped chasing a goat and began to wail, that it hit me. I bent down to help him up, and I opened my mouth to comfort him—but the words that came out weren’t mine. They were Moses’s. Words of blessing. Words of hope.
That’s when I knew. Moses didn’t just lead us through the desert. He taught us how to walk in it.
He never got to step foot in the land of Israel—our promised land—but before he left, he gave us something even more lasting. Not just laws or miracles. He gave us his heart. His blessing.
And maybe that’s what it means to be part of something holy. To carry on the dream of someone who loved the people more than he loved himself.
Today I’m older than Moses was when he returned from Midian to face Pharaoh. I have children of my own. They ask me what he was like.
I tell them he was a man of fire and tears.
And when I bless them before bedtime—with the same words he gave our ancestors—I remember the mountain, the way his voice trembled, and I understand now:
Moses didn’t bless us so we’d remember him. He blessed us so we’d never forget who we are.
They called him Moses. We called him our shepherd.
I was seventeen when he climbed the mountain for the last time. My name doesn’t matter—but I was there, standing near the edge of the camp as he gathered us tribe by tribe, blessing each one with a voice that cracked like dry leaves but carried the weight of the heavens.
I was just a boy when we left Egypt, still small enough to be carried on my father’s back when we crossed through walls of water at the Red Sea. I don’t remember the pain of slavery, but I remember the wilderness, the hunger, the fear—and Moses. He was always there. Holding us together.
And now he stood before us, his staff trembling in his hand. His eyes didn’t dim, but they carried something else: a sadness I'd never seen before. This wasn’t like the time he’d struck the rock in frustration. No, this sadness felt deeper. It was goodbye.
He began with Reuben and moved down the line. When he reached my tribe—Zebulun—he looked directly at me. Maybe it was just imagination, but I swear he saw me. “Rejoice, Zebulun,” he said, “in your going out…”
I didn’t understand the words. Not right away. But they stirred something deep inside of me. Our tribe hadn’t done anything special. We weren’t warriors like Judah, we didn’t carry the sacred Ark like the Levites. Yet he spoke to all of us, and every word was full of love. Every blessing—even the ones that mentioned our faults—was a thread in a great garment he was leaving behind.
I didn't cry when he died. Not right away. Instead, I felt empty, like someone had pulled the sky down and left only clouds.
It wasn’t until three days later, when a younger cousin tripped chasing a goat and began to wail, that it hit me. I bent down to help him up, and I opened my mouth to comfort him—but the words that came out weren’t mine. They were Moses’s. Words of blessing. Words of hope.
That’s when I knew. Moses didn’t just lead us through the desert. He taught us how to walk in it.
He never got to step foot in the land of Israel—our promised land—but before he left, he gave us something even more lasting. Not just laws or miracles. He gave us his heart. His blessing.
And maybe that’s what it means to be part of something holy. To carry on the dream of someone who loved the people more than he loved himself.
Today I’m older than Moses was when he returned from Midian to face Pharaoh. I have children of my own. They ask me what he was like.
I tell them he was a man of fire and tears.
And when I bless them before bedtime—with the same words he gave our ancestors—I remember the mountain, the way his voice trembled, and I understand now:
Moses didn’t bless us so we’d remember him. He blessed us so we’d never forget who we are.
