The noise came first—like thunder rolling across the sand.
I gripped my little brother’s hand tighter, the way my mother had told me. “Don’t let go,” she’d whispered when we left Egypt in the middle of the night. “Not ever.” Now his fingers were slippery with sweat, and our sandals kicked up dust as we ran.
Behind us, the Red Sea shimmered in the morning light. In front of us? A wall of people, stopped.
And beyond them—nothing but water. Deep. Endless. Cold.
I was born in Egypt, under Pharaoh's rule. My father was a brickmaker. My mother worked in the mills. People like us didn’t get rescues—or miracles. We got punishments. We got harder work. We got silence when we called out for help.
But Moses had come. And God had come with him.
Every plague, every act—frogs, hail, darkness, even death—it had all been leading to this day. To us, free and walking at last. Until Pharaoh changed his mind. Again.
The thunder grew louder.
Cries rippled through the crowd ahead. Pharaoh’s army. Horses. Chariots.
I knelt beside my brother. Sand stung our eyes. He was pale, dirt on his face like ash. “We’re trapped,” he whispered.
People shouted at Moses. Why did you bring us here? Were there not enough graves in Egypt?
I only saw Moses’ back.
He stood at the front of our people, his staff gripped in both hands. Pharaoh’s army had chased us all night—his chariots faster than our wagons, our goats, our children. We had nowhere left to run.
Then Moses lifted his staff.
At first, I didn’t believe what I saw.
The water moved—no, it rushed—splitting straight down the center. Wind screamed through it as if the sea itself were afraid of what God was doing.
Two walls of water rose on either side. The ground between them shimmered with light and mud.
And out of the stillness, Moses said one word:
“Go.”
Everyone stared for a second too long. Then someone screamed, and someone else ran, and then we all were moving—feet pounding over a sea floor scattering with seaweed and stones, jellyfish flopping helplessly on dry sand. I kept hold of my brother’s hand.
We walked through the sea.
On either side of us—oceans standing upright, wild fish flashing through waves that held their shape like glass.
I should have been afraid. But something in me—maybe it was hope, maybe it was Him—held a fire against the fear.
When we reached the far shore, we turned to see the Egyptians following. Their chariots rolled across the same sea floor. But this time, Moses lowered his staff.
The sea crashed down.
The thunder stopped.
It wasn’t just victory. It was silence—hugging us like safety.
My brother stared across the water. “They’re really gone,” he said.
I nodded. The salt wind bit my cheeks, and I didn’t care. We were free. But more than that—we were seen. God hadn’t forgotten us when we were slaves. He hadn’t left us behind when the waters rose.
He made a way where there was none.
That day changed more than where we lived. It changed who we were. We didn’t belong to Pharaoh anymore. We belonged to a God who could part the sea—and still stop to hold a frightened child’s hand.
The miracle wasn’t just the waters opening. It was that we walked through on dry ground—and didn’t look back.
The noise came first—like thunder rolling across the sand.
I gripped my little brother’s hand tighter, the way my mother had told me. “Don’t let go,” she’d whispered when we left Egypt in the middle of the night. “Not ever.” Now his fingers were slippery with sweat, and our sandals kicked up dust as we ran.
Behind us, the Red Sea shimmered in the morning light. In front of us? A wall of people, stopped.
And beyond them—nothing but water. Deep. Endless. Cold.
I was born in Egypt, under Pharaoh's rule. My father was a brickmaker. My mother worked in the mills. People like us didn’t get rescues—or miracles. We got punishments. We got harder work. We got silence when we called out for help.
But Moses had come. And God had come with him.
Every plague, every act—frogs, hail, darkness, even death—it had all been leading to this day. To us, free and walking at last. Until Pharaoh changed his mind. Again.
The thunder grew louder.
Cries rippled through the crowd ahead. Pharaoh’s army. Horses. Chariots.
I knelt beside my brother. Sand stung our eyes. He was pale, dirt on his face like ash. “We’re trapped,” he whispered.
People shouted at Moses. Why did you bring us here? Were there not enough graves in Egypt?
I only saw Moses’ back.
He stood at the front of our people, his staff gripped in both hands. Pharaoh’s army had chased us all night—his chariots faster than our wagons, our goats, our children. We had nowhere left to run.
Then Moses lifted his staff.
At first, I didn’t believe what I saw.
The water moved—no, it rushed—splitting straight down the center. Wind screamed through it as if the sea itself were afraid of what God was doing.
Two walls of water rose on either side. The ground between them shimmered with light and mud.
And out of the stillness, Moses said one word:
“Go.”
Everyone stared for a second too long. Then someone screamed, and someone else ran, and then we all were moving—feet pounding over a sea floor scattering with seaweed and stones, jellyfish flopping helplessly on dry sand. I kept hold of my brother’s hand.
We walked through the sea.
On either side of us—oceans standing upright, wild fish flashing through waves that held their shape like glass.
I should have been afraid. But something in me—maybe it was hope, maybe it was Him—held a fire against the fear.
When we reached the far shore, we turned to see the Egyptians following. Their chariots rolled across the same sea floor. But this time, Moses lowered his staff.
The sea crashed down.
The thunder stopped.
It wasn’t just victory. It was silence—hugging us like safety.
My brother stared across the water. “They’re really gone,” he said.
I nodded. The salt wind bit my cheeks, and I didn’t care. We were free. But more than that—we were seen. God hadn’t forgotten us when we were slaves. He hadn’t left us behind when the waters rose.
He made a way where there was none.
That day changed more than where we lived. It changed who we were. We didn’t belong to Pharaoh anymore. We belonged to a God who could part the sea—and still stop to hold a frightened child’s hand.
The miracle wasn’t just the waters opening. It was that we walked through on dry ground—and didn’t look back.
