The wind howled through the camp like a chorus of giants. My fingers trembled as I gathered the last of the scattered goats, the pattering of their hooves drowned beneath the rising roar from the mountain ahead. It wasn't just a storm. This was something different. Something alive.
My name is Eliab, and I was just a boy when God spoke.
We’d been wandering the wilderness for weeks—sand in our hair, blisters on our feet—ever since God split the sea wide open and set us free from Pharaoh’s chains. My father, a craftsman, didn’t speak of miracles lightly. But even he whispered that Mount Sinai was different. “Watch closely,” he told me, his voice tight. “We’ve reached the mountain where heaven touches earth.”
But now, I didn’t want to be close. The whole mountain was wrapped in smoke, as if it were on fire from the inside out. Lightning split the sky. Thunder shook the stones beneath my sandals. The ground rumbled with every breath like the growl of something too vast to be seen.
Then came the voice.
Not a man. Not even an angel. No—this voice tore through the clouds, deep and pure. It came not just to my ears, but to my bones. Everyone in the camp—women, warriors, even the elders—fell to their knees. And God spoke.
His words weren’t angry. They weren’t small. They were… right. Perfect. Like the world was finally being told what it was always meant to be.
“I am the Lord your God, who brought you out of Egypt…”
Every command tumbled like thunder. No other gods. No idols. Honor My name. Honor rest. Honor your parents. Don’t murder. Don’t lie. Don’t take what isn’t yours. Don’t betray, don’t envy, don’t covet.
At first, the rules felt crushing. How could anyone live up to all of them? But then I saw the look on my mother’s face—eyes full of tears, not from fear, but something like relief.
“These are the rules of life,” she whispered. “We’re not slaves anymore. These show us how to live.”
That night, after God’s voice faded and Moses disappeared into the smoke, I sat by the fire, the words echoing in my chest. They weren’t like Pharaoh’s demands, shouted from above with whips in hand. These were different. Fierce, yes. But good. Words of a God who wanted us to belong to Him—and each other. I think that’s when I understood: we weren't just escaping Egypt. We were being invited into something greater. A covenant. A promise.
The fire cracked beside me, warm against the cool mountain wind. I didn’t know the whole path ahead. But I knew the One who had spoken it into being.
What changed? I stopped seeing God's laws as chains—and started seeing them as light.
The miracle wasn’t just the mountain trembling. It was that God gave us His own voice, so we’d never be lost again.
And that night, as I fell asleep beneath a sky still streaked with smoke, I whispered the words to myself, one by one. I wanted them inside me forever.
The wind howled through the camp like a chorus of giants. My fingers trembled as I gathered the last of the scattered goats, the pattering of their hooves drowned beneath the rising roar from the mountain ahead. It wasn't just a storm. This was something different. Something alive.
My name is Eliab, and I was just a boy when God spoke.
We’d been wandering the wilderness for weeks—sand in our hair, blisters on our feet—ever since God split the sea wide open and set us free from Pharaoh’s chains. My father, a craftsman, didn’t speak of miracles lightly. But even he whispered that Mount Sinai was different. “Watch closely,” he told me, his voice tight. “We’ve reached the mountain where heaven touches earth.”
But now, I didn’t want to be close. The whole mountain was wrapped in smoke, as if it were on fire from the inside out. Lightning split the sky. Thunder shook the stones beneath my sandals. The ground rumbled with every breath like the growl of something too vast to be seen.
Then came the voice.
Not a man. Not even an angel. No—this voice tore through the clouds, deep and pure. It came not just to my ears, but to my bones. Everyone in the camp—women, warriors, even the elders—fell to their knees. And God spoke.
His words weren’t angry. They weren’t small. They were… right. Perfect. Like the world was finally being told what it was always meant to be.
“I am the Lord your God, who brought you out of Egypt…”
Every command tumbled like thunder. No other gods. No idols. Honor My name. Honor rest. Honor your parents. Don’t murder. Don’t lie. Don’t take what isn’t yours. Don’t betray, don’t envy, don’t covet.
At first, the rules felt crushing. How could anyone live up to all of them? But then I saw the look on my mother’s face—eyes full of tears, not from fear, but something like relief.
“These are the rules of life,” she whispered. “We’re not slaves anymore. These show us how to live.”
That night, after God’s voice faded and Moses disappeared into the smoke, I sat by the fire, the words echoing in my chest. They weren’t like Pharaoh’s demands, shouted from above with whips in hand. These were different. Fierce, yes. But good. Words of a God who wanted us to belong to Him—and each other. I think that’s when I understood: we weren't just escaping Egypt. We were being invited into something greater. A covenant. A promise.
The fire cracked beside me, warm against the cool mountain wind. I didn’t know the whole path ahead. But I knew the One who had spoken it into being.
What changed? I stopped seeing God's laws as chains—and started seeing them as light.
The miracle wasn’t just the mountain trembling. It was that God gave us His own voice, so we’d never be lost again.
And that night, as I fell asleep beneath a sky still streaked with smoke, I whispered the words to myself, one by one. I wanted them inside me forever.
