I had been walking behind the sheep all morning when I first saw it—something glowing just over the ridge. At first, I thought it was sunlight on the rocks, but then I saw the flicker. Fire. My heart dropped. Out here in the mountains, a single flame could turn the whole hillside into ash.
My name’s Caleb. I worked for Moses out in Midian. He seemed old to me, quiet and kind, but something about his eyes made me think there was more to his story—like he had once been someone brave, then walked far away from that part of himself.
“Stay here,” he said to me, laying a calm hand on my shoulder. Then he climbed the rocks toward the glowing bush. I should’ve been afraid—but I wasn’t. Not of the fire, anyway. Something about it felt… different. No smoke. No heat. Just pure, steady flame curling around the branches. Strange thing was, nothing burned.
I crept a little closer, hiding behind a boulder.
Then I heard it.
“Moses,” a voice called from the fire. It wasn’t loud, but it seemed to come from inside the world, almost like the sky itself was speaking. Moses froze.
“Here I am,” he said.
And then he took off his sandals.
I didn’t understand, not at first. But I watched as his shoulders sank, his knees bent. That’s when I knew—he wasn’t afraid. He was overwhelmed. Like someone had opened a door he'd thought was locked forever, and light was pouring out.
G-d was speaking to him.
I heard pieces. Something about Egypt. The suffering of His people. A mission that sounded impossible. Moses whispered, “Who am I that I should go?”
He sounded broken—like a man who once ran from flames, and now was being called to walk straight into them.
I knew the story. Everyone whispered about it. Moses had grown up in Egypt, in Pharaoh’s own palace, but then ran, years ago, after killing a man. He’d disappeared—vanished into the desert with nothing but guilt and fear trailing after him. He became just a quiet shepherd. I’d never seen anyone wonder if G-d still saw them like Moses did.
But G-d hadn’t forgotten him.
From the fire, G-d gave him a name: “I Am.”
He promised Moses that he wouldn’t go back to Egypt alone.
That moment changed him.
He came down from the ridge slowly, sandals in hand, face pale and eyes burning in a completely different way.
“We’re leaving,” he told me the next morning, brushing dust from the hem of his robe. “G-d is sending me back.”
“To Egypt?” I asked.
He nodded. “To free them.”
There was fear in his voice, yes—but under it, something steadier. A beginning.
That bush didn’t burn because G-d was showing him something—we don’t get destroyed just because we carry fire. We get changed.
Moses left behind the man who once ran. And I walked beside someone ready to obey, even when it hurt, even when it scared him.
He wasn’t just my master after that. He was my teacher.
And that day in the desert, a shepherd became something more—a servant of G-d’s promise.
And I knew: even people who hide can still be called.
Even people who think they’re not enough… still are.
I had been walking behind the sheep all morning when I first saw it—something glowing just over the ridge. At first, I thought it was sunlight on the rocks, but then I saw the flicker. Fire. My heart dropped. Out here in the mountains, a single flame could turn the whole hillside into ash.
My name’s Caleb. I worked for Moses out in Midian. He seemed old to me, quiet and kind, but something about his eyes made me think there was more to his story—like he had once been someone brave, then walked far away from that part of himself.
“Stay here,” he said to me, laying a calm hand on my shoulder. Then he climbed the rocks toward the glowing bush. I should’ve been afraid—but I wasn’t. Not of the fire, anyway. Something about it felt… different. No smoke. No heat. Just pure, steady flame curling around the branches. Strange thing was, nothing burned.
I crept a little closer, hiding behind a boulder.
Then I heard it.
“Moses,” a voice called from the fire. It wasn’t loud, but it seemed to come from inside the world, almost like the sky itself was speaking. Moses froze.
“Here I am,” he said.
And then he took off his sandals.
I didn’t understand, not at first. But I watched as his shoulders sank, his knees bent. That’s when I knew—he wasn’t afraid. He was overwhelmed. Like someone had opened a door he'd thought was locked forever, and light was pouring out.
G-d was speaking to him.
I heard pieces. Something about Egypt. The suffering of His people. A mission that sounded impossible. Moses whispered, “Who am I that I should go?”
He sounded broken—like a man who once ran from flames, and now was being called to walk straight into them.
I knew the story. Everyone whispered about it. Moses had grown up in Egypt, in Pharaoh’s own palace, but then ran, years ago, after killing a man. He’d disappeared—vanished into the desert with nothing but guilt and fear trailing after him. He became just a quiet shepherd. I’d never seen anyone wonder if G-d still saw them like Moses did.
But G-d hadn’t forgotten him.
From the fire, G-d gave him a name: “I Am.”
He promised Moses that he wouldn’t go back to Egypt alone.
That moment changed him.
He came down from the ridge slowly, sandals in hand, face pale and eyes burning in a completely different way.
“We’re leaving,” he told me the next morning, brushing dust from the hem of his robe. “G-d is sending me back.”
“To Egypt?” I asked.
He nodded. “To free them.”
There was fear in his voice, yes—but under it, something steadier. A beginning.
That bush didn’t burn because G-d was showing him something—we don’t get destroyed just because we carry fire. We get changed.
Moses left behind the man who once ran. And I walked beside someone ready to obey, even when it hurt, even when it scared him.
He wasn’t just my master after that. He was my teacher.
And that day in the desert, a shepherd became something more—a servant of G-d’s promise.
And I knew: even people who hide can still be called.
Even people who think they’re not enough… still are.
