Our feet were sore, and the desert wind never stopped biting at our faces, but I remember that morning most because it was so quiet. Thousands of us—all warriors, families, elders, priests—staring at the thick walls of Jericho without saying a word.
My name is Rami. I was just twelve, technically too young to fight, but old enough to carry water to the soldiers and follow Abba, who played one of the ram's horns. He was a Levite, one of the men who helped lead worship and take care of God’s holy place. I always thought God showed up in temples or tents—but soon, I would learn He could tear apart stone if He wanted.
Jericho was terrifying. Its walls were higher than any tree I'd ever seen and thick enough to ride horses across the top. No army could knock them down—not even ours, no matter how strong we trained. Inside, the city was shut up tight, afraid of us. But honestly? We were afraid too. We’d crossed the Jordan River by miracle, but victory still felt like a dream more than a plan.
Then Joshua, the man God had chosen to lead us after Moses, gave the strangest command.
“We won’t fight today,” he said. His voice was calm but firm. “We’ll walk. Around the city. One time. All of us. Silently. Let the priests carry the Ark of the Covenant, and only the ram’s horns will sound.”
Walk? That’s all? Just walk around while our enemies laughed at us from the towers?
But no one questioned Joshua. He walked in obedience, just like Moses had, and we followed him because we’d seen what happened when people didn’t trust God—none of the adults who had doubted made it into this new land. This was our chance to start fresh.
Day one. Around the city once. The horns blew—high and lonely. We didn’t speak, and the soldiers on the walls muttered to each other. Some laughed. A few threw food scraps.
Day two. The same thing. And again on days three, four, five, and six. Each day felt heavier inside me. My legs got stronger, but my heart? Weaker. What if we were just marching in pointless circles?
On the seventh day, my father woke me early. “Seven times today, son,” he said. “And then we shout.”
Seven? My stomach turned. Couldn’t we just climb or dig or… fight?
But I walked. I walked because Joshua said God promised victory. I walked because maybe that’s what faith really is—stepping forward even when it doesn’t make sense.
We passed a window with a red rope hanging from it. That was Rahab’s house. She had once been part of that wicked city, but she helped our spies escape and asked for mercy. Joshua had granted it because mercy was stronger than fear.
Round six… my legs ached. I was thirsty. The horns sounded again.
Round seven… and we stopped.
Suddenly, Joshua lifted his hand. “Shout!” he cried. “For the Lord has given you the city!”
And we did. A roar rose like I’d never heard before—not just from mouths but deep in our chests, as if centuries of waiting and pain and wandering exploded in that one breath.
And the walls? They shook.
They rippled like water… and then crumbled as if invisible hands had smashed them to dust. All at once, layer by layer, the mighty walls of Jericho tumbled outward. No weapon. No ladder. Just worship and obedience—and the power of God proving He was with us.
I’ll never forget the sound. Not the crash, but the silence afterward. That wide-eyed, holy silence when we realized what had just happened.
The city fell—but Rahab’s home still stood. Right there in that one tiny section of wall, God’s mercy rested like a shield.
We took the city, just like God said we would. But the real victory wasn’t in the falling walls. It was in the faith that went up before them.
That day, I stopped thinking God lived only in temples. I knew He walked with His people—even in circles that seemed pointless. Even when the walls looked too strong to move.
And from that day on, I didn’t carry just water. I carried faith.
Our feet were sore, and the desert wind never stopped biting at our faces, but I remember that morning most because it was so quiet. Thousands of us—all warriors, families, elders, priests—staring at the thick walls of Jericho without saying a word.
My name is Rami. I was just twelve, technically too young to fight, but old enough to carry water to the soldiers and follow Abba, who played one of the ram's horns. He was a Levite, one of the men who helped lead worship and take care of God’s holy place. I always thought God showed up in temples or tents—but soon, I would learn He could tear apart stone if He wanted.
Jericho was terrifying. Its walls were higher than any tree I'd ever seen and thick enough to ride horses across the top. No army could knock them down—not even ours, no matter how strong we trained. Inside, the city was shut up tight, afraid of us. But honestly? We were afraid too. We’d crossed the Jordan River by miracle, but victory still felt like a dream more than a plan.
Then Joshua, the man God had chosen to lead us after Moses, gave the strangest command.
“We won’t fight today,” he said. His voice was calm but firm. “We’ll walk. Around the city. One time. All of us. Silently. Let the priests carry the Ark of the Covenant, and only the ram’s horns will sound.”
Walk? That’s all? Just walk around while our enemies laughed at us from the towers?
But no one questioned Joshua. He walked in obedience, just like Moses had, and we followed him because we’d seen what happened when people didn’t trust God—none of the adults who had doubted made it into this new land. This was our chance to start fresh.
Day one. Around the city once. The horns blew—high and lonely. We didn’t speak, and the soldiers on the walls muttered to each other. Some laughed. A few threw food scraps.
Day two. The same thing. And again on days three, four, five, and six. Each day felt heavier inside me. My legs got stronger, but my heart? Weaker. What if we were just marching in pointless circles?
On the seventh day, my father woke me early. “Seven times today, son,” he said. “And then we shout.”
Seven? My stomach turned. Couldn’t we just climb or dig or… fight?
But I walked. I walked because Joshua said God promised victory. I walked because maybe that’s what faith really is—stepping forward even when it doesn’t make sense.
We passed a window with a red rope hanging from it. That was Rahab’s house. She had once been part of that wicked city, but she helped our spies escape and asked for mercy. Joshua had granted it because mercy was stronger than fear.
Round six… my legs ached. I was thirsty. The horns sounded again.
Round seven… and we stopped.
Suddenly, Joshua lifted his hand. “Shout!” he cried. “For the Lord has given you the city!”
And we did. A roar rose like I’d never heard before—not just from mouths but deep in our chests, as if centuries of waiting and pain and wandering exploded in that one breath.
And the walls? They shook.
They rippled like water… and then crumbled as if invisible hands had smashed them to dust. All at once, layer by layer, the mighty walls of Jericho tumbled outward. No weapon. No ladder. Just worship and obedience—and the power of God proving He was with us.
I’ll never forget the sound. Not the crash, but the silence afterward. That wide-eyed, holy silence when we realized what had just happened.
The city fell—but Rahab’s home still stood. Right there in that one tiny section of wall, God’s mercy rested like a shield.
We took the city, just like God said we would. But the real victory wasn’t in the falling walls. It was in the faith that went up before them.
That day, I stopped thinking God lived only in temples. I knew He walked with His people—even in circles that seemed pointless. Even when the walls looked too strong to move.
And from that day on, I didn’t carry just water. I carried faith.
