The mud from the Nile tasted like iron. I know because I tripped and fell face-first into it the day everything changed. My name’s Caleb. I was twelve and worked beside my mother grinding grain near the edge of the water when it turned red—blood red. At first, it didn’t seem real. The fish floated lifeless, and the smell—it hit like a slap. Our hands were stained. And that’s just how it began.
Word spread that Moses had raised his staff before Pharaoh. We heard whispers and arguments between taskmasters. Some thought the Hebrew G-d was bluffing. Others—like my father—just stared out at the red river and cried silently. “Our own gods couldn’t stop this,” he said one night, clutching his prayer beads until his knuckles went white.
Then came the frogs—everywhere. In bowls, under blankets, even inside the ovens. I couldn't sleep for three nights because their croaks echoed in our room like drums in the dark. After that was the dust turning into gnats, then the flies. They swarmed so thick you couldn’t open your mouth without choking on them. Each time Pharaoh promised to let the Hebrews go… then changed his mind.
I cleaned the dead bodies of livestock with my brother David. We covered our mouths with cloths soaked in vinegar just to bear the stench. People started blaming each other. “You bowed to the Hebrew G-d,” they accused my neighbor. “You mocked Him first,” he shot back. Fear cracked the air like lightning.
The worst wasn’t the physical pain. It wasn’t even the boils, though I watched my little sister scream as one burst on her leg. The worst was the not knowing—if we were ever going to be safe again. Egypt’s gods had been silent. Ours were falling. And the Hebrews? Their people were untouched. Every time, their homes stood clean, their children healthy. It made me feel like the world had flipped upside down.
The sky turned black one afternoon, though it wasn’t supposed to storm. It stayed that way for days. We groped through our houses, knocking things over, calling each other’s names just to know we weren’t alone. I asked my father if it would ever end.
“When Pharaoh bows his heart,” was all he said.
The final plague came with warning. Moses had walked straight into Pharaoh’s court—braver than anyone we’d ever seen—and declared that every firstborn in Egypt would die. Unless. Unless you were Hebrew. Unless you covered your doorposts with lamb’s blood.
That night, I couldn’t eat. My brother held my hand. We listened. And then we heard it—one mother’s scream, and then another. A wail rose over us like thunder. My next-door friend Aaron didn’t cry. He didn’t breathe. I helped carry his small body out the next morning. I didn’t understand why the Hebrew G-d had to take him… until I saw Pharaoh standing in the streets, broken, but not weeping. He’d let the people go. But his eyes still burned with hate.
We weren’t just punished. We were warned. Again and again. G-d showed mercy ten times—and only struck when Pharaoh’s pride would not die. That’s what I came to understand.
Looking back, the plagues weren’t about breaking Egypt. They were about waking it up.
I never trusted kings again. But I did start to trust something bigger. A G-d who fights for what’s right and waits longer than He has to.
The miracle wasn’t that Pharaoh gave up—it was that G-d didn’t.
The mud from the Nile tasted like iron. I know because I tripped and fell face-first into it the day everything changed. My name’s Caleb. I was twelve and worked beside my mother grinding grain near the edge of the water when it turned red—blood red. At first, it didn’t seem real. The fish floated lifeless, and the smell—it hit like a slap. Our hands were stained. And that’s just how it began.
Word spread that Moses had raised his staff before Pharaoh. We heard whispers and arguments between taskmasters. Some thought the Hebrew G-d was bluffing. Others—like my father—just stared out at the red river and cried silently. “Our own gods couldn’t stop this,” he said one night, clutching his prayer beads until his knuckles went white.
Then came the frogs—everywhere. In bowls, under blankets, even inside the ovens. I couldn't sleep for three nights because their croaks echoed in our room like drums in the dark. After that was the dust turning into gnats, then the flies. They swarmed so thick you couldn’t open your mouth without choking on them. Each time Pharaoh promised to let the Hebrews go… then changed his mind.
I cleaned the dead bodies of livestock with my brother David. We covered our mouths with cloths soaked in vinegar just to bear the stench. People started blaming each other. “You bowed to the Hebrew G-d,” they accused my neighbor. “You mocked Him first,” he shot back. Fear cracked the air like lightning.
The worst wasn’t the physical pain. It wasn’t even the boils, though I watched my little sister scream as one burst on her leg. The worst was the not knowing—if we were ever going to be safe again. Egypt’s gods had been silent. Ours were falling. And the Hebrews? Their people were untouched. Every time, their homes stood clean, their children healthy. It made me feel like the world had flipped upside down.
The sky turned black one afternoon, though it wasn’t supposed to storm. It stayed that way for days. We groped through our houses, knocking things over, calling each other’s names just to know we weren’t alone. I asked my father if it would ever end.
“When Pharaoh bows his heart,” was all he said.
The final plague came with warning. Moses had walked straight into Pharaoh’s court—braver than anyone we’d ever seen—and declared that every firstborn in Egypt would die. Unless. Unless you were Hebrew. Unless you covered your doorposts with lamb’s blood.
That night, I couldn’t eat. My brother held my hand. We listened. And then we heard it—one mother’s scream, and then another. A wail rose over us like thunder. My next-door friend Aaron didn’t cry. He didn’t breathe. I helped carry his small body out the next morning. I didn’t understand why the Hebrew G-d had to take him… until I saw Pharaoh standing in the streets, broken, but not weeping. He’d let the people go. But his eyes still burned with hate.
We weren’t just punished. We were warned. Again and again. G-d showed mercy ten times—and only struck when Pharaoh’s pride would not die. That’s what I came to understand.
Looking back, the plagues weren’t about breaking Egypt. They were about waking it up.
I never trusted kings again. But I did start to trust something bigger. A G-d who fights for what’s right and waits longer than He has to.
The miracle wasn’t that Pharaoh gave up—it was that G-d didn’t.
