I was just a boy when Avram—the man later known as Abraham—left everything behind. My father, Elan, was one of his herdsmen. We traveled with him out of Charan, across lands I couldn’t yet name, following a path none of us understood.
I remember that morning as clearly as if it were yesterday. My mother was packing up our tent when Avram appeared. He stood by our fire, tall and calm, his eyes looking far beyond the hills. I had never seen anyone look like that—like he was listening to something no one else could hear.
"Where are we going?" I asked my father as we saddled the donkeys.
"Avram says the Almighty—Hashem—has told him to go to a land He will show him," he said, tying the last bundle. "He believes this God will make him into a great nation."
"But we don’t know where the land is,” I said, confused.
“No,” my father said, "we don’t. But Avram trusts."
We walked for days, weeks. Desert winds burned our cheeks during the day, and the cold bit our bones at night. People mocked us in villages. “Wandering fools!” they’d yell. Still, Avram never turned back.
One evening, as we rested by the Oaks of Moreh, I brought Avram a flask of water. I couldn’t help but ask, “Do you ever worry Hashem won’t really lead us to a land of our own?”
He looked down at me and smiled softly. “I worry,” he said. “But I trust more than I fear. Hashem made a promise, and I will not let doubt speak louder than His voice.”
Later that night, I couldn’t sleep. I heard voices outside the camp. When I peeked through the tent flap, I saw Avram alone, looking up at the stars. His hands trembled slightly, but his face was full of awe.
Years later, he told us what had happened that night. Hashem had spoken again. He told Avram to look up at the sky and count the stars—if he could. “So shall your offspring be,” God had said. A covenant, Avram called it. A brit. He said Hashem promised to give his descendants the land we were in and to be their God forever.
But Avram had no children at the time. Not one. Still, he believed. That’s what changed everything.
That night, I understood something: faith isn’t about knowing how it all ends. It’s about taking the next step because God told you to.
Now I’m old, with children and grandchildren of my own. We’ve faced hunger, war, and fear. But I still remember how Avram obeyed before he understood. That first step he took—out of his homeland, his family’s house, and into uncertainty—became the first step of our people.
We followed a man who followed a voice. And that voice—Hashem’s voice—delivered more than land. It delivered us a future.
I was just a boy when Avram—the man later known as Abraham—left everything behind. My father, Elan, was one of his herdsmen. We traveled with him out of Charan, across lands I couldn’t yet name, following a path none of us understood.
I remember that morning as clearly as if it were yesterday. My mother was packing up our tent when Avram appeared. He stood by our fire, tall and calm, his eyes looking far beyond the hills. I had never seen anyone look like that—like he was listening to something no one else could hear.
"Where are we going?" I asked my father as we saddled the donkeys.
"Avram says the Almighty—Hashem—has told him to go to a land He will show him," he said, tying the last bundle. "He believes this God will make him into a great nation."
"But we don’t know where the land is,” I said, confused.
“No,” my father said, "we don’t. But Avram trusts."
We walked for days, weeks. Desert winds burned our cheeks during the day, and the cold bit our bones at night. People mocked us in villages. “Wandering fools!” they’d yell. Still, Avram never turned back.
One evening, as we rested by the Oaks of Moreh, I brought Avram a flask of water. I couldn’t help but ask, “Do you ever worry Hashem won’t really lead us to a land of our own?”
He looked down at me and smiled softly. “I worry,” he said. “But I trust more than I fear. Hashem made a promise, and I will not let doubt speak louder than His voice.”
Later that night, I couldn’t sleep. I heard voices outside the camp. When I peeked through the tent flap, I saw Avram alone, looking up at the stars. His hands trembled slightly, but his face was full of awe.
Years later, he told us what had happened that night. Hashem had spoken again. He told Avram to look up at the sky and count the stars—if he could. “So shall your offspring be,” God had said. A covenant, Avram called it. A brit. He said Hashem promised to give his descendants the land we were in and to be their God forever.
But Avram had no children at the time. Not one. Still, he believed. That’s what changed everything.
That night, I understood something: faith isn’t about knowing how it all ends. It’s about taking the next step because God told you to.
Now I’m old, with children and grandchildren of my own. We’ve faced hunger, war, and fear. But I still remember how Avram obeyed before he understood. That first step he took—out of his homeland, his family’s house, and into uncertainty—became the first step of our people.
We followed a man who followed a voice. And that voice—Hashem’s voice—delivered more than land. It delivered us a future.
