They say the Garden was perfect—but I didn’t feel perfect that day I ran barefoot across the riverbank, leaves scratching at my legs, heart pounding like a drum inside my chest. My name is Caleb, and I was only a gardener’s boy. I didn’t belong in Eden. But somehow, that morning, I saw what no one else did. I saw the moment everything changed.
I had followed the stream past the fig grove—too far, I know. No one was supposed to go past the shining tree in the middle. We all knew the rule—they knew it too. Adam and Eve. The first ones. The ones G-d had shaped with His own hands. They walked with G-d like a friend walks beside you in the field. They didn’t have to imagine what G-d sounded like. They heard Him. In the quiet. In the breeze.
But that day... they weren’t listening.
I didn’t mean to spy. I ducked behind a bush when I saw Eve standing near the Tree—the one we were told never to touch. The Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil. I held my breath as the man came beside her. Adam. His face looked uncertain, like he wanted to stop and run at the same time. Then, I saw her hand reach forward.
“No,” I wanted to shout. “Don’t!” But the words stuck in my throat. Because right behind her stood something dark—twisting in the shadows, wearing a smile that didn’t feel right. A creature that whispered, “You won’t die.”
Adam said nothing. Eve reached. The fruit gleamed like it knew its time had come.
She bit.
And everything... changed.
The wind stopped. The birds fled. The sunlight dimmed, like the sky itself went quiet.
I couldn't move. I watched Adam take the fruit next. His hands shook. He looked at Eve, then looked down, and ate.
In that instant, I felt something rip. Not just in the sky—but inside. Like something warm and good had left, and something cold took its place.
They stood still, not looking at each other. Then they did. And their faces changed—they stared at their own skin like suddenly it made them feel... ashamed. I didn’t know that word before. But I understand it now.
They grabbed leaves. Tried to hide. I think part of them already knew—they weren't just naked. They were seen.
That’s when we heard His footsteps. Not fast. Slow. Not angry. Just... coming.
“Where are you?” He called.
It wasn’t a question. G-d knew exactly where they were. But He wanted them to know where they stood. Far. Fallen. Lost.
They came out trembling. Eve had tears on her cheeks. Adam didn’t speak at first. When he did, his voice was small. “She gave me the fruit."
Eve's voice cracked. “The serpent tricked me.”
I wished I could un-see it all. Go back to pruning vines. Go back to a world without hiding.
But G-d didn’t destroy them.
He knelt down and made them clothes. Not leaves. Clothes from soft skins—warm enough for exile. It felt like mercy stitched into every thread.
And then the gates closed. A sword of fire hung in the air. No going back.
As I stood outside the garden with the others who served and lived nearby, I realized the most perfect place wasn’t perfect without obedience. And mercy was what let them live—even when they had broken everything.
That day, I stopped looking for perfect soil. I started looking for G-d’s voice.
And I still listen. Because even outside the Garden, He’s still calling: “Where are you?”
They say the Garden was perfect—but I didn’t feel perfect that day I ran barefoot across the riverbank, leaves scratching at my legs, heart pounding like a drum inside my chest. My name is Caleb, and I was only a gardener’s boy. I didn’t belong in Eden. But somehow, that morning, I saw what no one else did. I saw the moment everything changed.
I had followed the stream past the fig grove—too far, I know. No one was supposed to go past the shining tree in the middle. We all knew the rule—they knew it too. Adam and Eve. The first ones. The ones G-d had shaped with His own hands. They walked with G-d like a friend walks beside you in the field. They didn’t have to imagine what G-d sounded like. They heard Him. In the quiet. In the breeze.
But that day... they weren’t listening.
I didn’t mean to spy. I ducked behind a bush when I saw Eve standing near the Tree—the one we were told never to touch. The Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil. I held my breath as the man came beside her. Adam. His face looked uncertain, like he wanted to stop and run at the same time. Then, I saw her hand reach forward.
“No,” I wanted to shout. “Don’t!” But the words stuck in my throat. Because right behind her stood something dark—twisting in the shadows, wearing a smile that didn’t feel right. A creature that whispered, “You won’t die.”
Adam said nothing. Eve reached. The fruit gleamed like it knew its time had come.
She bit.
And everything... changed.
The wind stopped. The birds fled. The sunlight dimmed, like the sky itself went quiet.
I couldn't move. I watched Adam take the fruit next. His hands shook. He looked at Eve, then looked down, and ate.
In that instant, I felt something rip. Not just in the sky—but inside. Like something warm and good had left, and something cold took its place.
They stood still, not looking at each other. Then they did. And their faces changed—they stared at their own skin like suddenly it made them feel... ashamed. I didn’t know that word before. But I understand it now.
They grabbed leaves. Tried to hide. I think part of them already knew—they weren't just naked. They were seen.
That’s when we heard His footsteps. Not fast. Slow. Not angry. Just... coming.
“Where are you?” He called.
It wasn’t a question. G-d knew exactly where they were. But He wanted them to know where they stood. Far. Fallen. Lost.
They came out trembling. Eve had tears on her cheeks. Adam didn’t speak at first. When he did, his voice was small. “She gave me the fruit."
Eve's voice cracked. “The serpent tricked me.”
I wished I could un-see it all. Go back to pruning vines. Go back to a world without hiding.
But G-d didn’t destroy them.
He knelt down and made them clothes. Not leaves. Clothes from soft skins—warm enough for exile. It felt like mercy stitched into every thread.
And then the gates closed. A sword of fire hung in the air. No going back.
As I stood outside the garden with the others who served and lived nearby, I realized the most perfect place wasn’t perfect without obedience. And mercy was what let them live—even when they had broken everything.
That day, I stopped looking for perfect soil. I started looking for G-d’s voice.
And I still listen. Because even outside the Garden, He’s still calling: “Where are you?”
