Author’s Note

I authored this story with deep respect for Jewish tradition and for the sacred narrative of the Exodus. This is not a retelling meant to replace Torah, nor an attempt to reinterpret Jewish belief. It is simply an imaginative window, a child’s memory placed gently alongside the ancient story, inspired by Midrashic tradition, where personal voices and human experiences help illuminate the truth already held in our texts.

Leib’s perspective is not meant as history, but as heart: a way of honouring the courage, faith, and suffering of the Israelites, the leadership of Moses and Miriam, and the miracle God performed at the Red Sea. Every detail was approached with care, humility, and gratitude for the richness of Jewish teaching.

If you are reading this from within the Jewish community, please know that this work was created with reverence, for your heritage, your faith, your stories, and the generations who have carried them. It is offered not as commentary, but as tribute.

Chapter One — “The Night the Sea Waited”

My name is Leib, son of Samuel, and I was small enough to fit under my father’s arm when Egypt taught me what fear tasted like. It tasted like dust. Like metal. Like the inside of your mouth when you try not to cry.

I remember the captain’s house, the one my father worked in. The floors were stone, always cold, even when the sun burned the world outside. The captain’s sandals slapped the ground in a way that made my stomach tighten. I learned to listen for that sound the way other children listen for their mother’s voice.

But my father… he carried something Egypt couldn’t steal. He called it Emunah, faith. I didn’t know the word then, but I knew the warmth of his hand when he held mine. Faith feels like that, warm, steady, quiet.

One night, he woke me gently.

“Leib”, he whispered, “we’re leaving”.

His voice was soft, but his hands shook. Fear makes hands shake. Hope does too.

We slipped into the dark. The moon was thin, like a slice of fingernail. The air smelled like sand and sweat and something else, something waiting.

As we ran, shadows became people. Families I had seen working in the fields. Women carrying babies wrapped in cloth. Old men leaning on sticks. Children with eyes too big for their faces.

We were many, but we were hunted.

I could hear Pharaoh’s chariots long before I saw them, the rumble of wheels, the snorting of horses, the shouting of soldiers. The sound crawled up my spine like cold fingers. My father lifted me when my legs gave out. His breath was heavy. His heart thumped against my ear. I held onto his robe and tried not to look back, but I always did. Behind us, the dust rose like a monster. We ran until the desert opened into something huge and blue.

Yam Suf. The Red Sea.

I had never seen so much water. It looked like the sky had fallen and shattered on the ground. The grown-ups stopped. Some cried. Some prayed. Some stared at the sea like it was the end of the world. We were trapped. I tugged on my father’s sleeve.

“Abba… what do we do?”

He knelt beside me, his breath shaking.

“God didn’t bring us this far to leave us here”, he said.

But the sea didn’t move.

Moses stood at the front, staff raised, praying. The people shouted. The army grew closer. The water stayed still.

I didn’t understand why God wasn’t answering.

Then something happened that I didn’t understand until I was older.

A man stepped forward; his name was Nachshon ben Amminadav, from the tribe of Judah. I didn’t know his name then. I only knew he walked like someone who was not afraid. He didn’t wait for the sea to split. He didn’t wait for a sign. He walked straight into the water. I watched him go deeper. Up to his knees. Up to his waist. Up to his chest. Up to his nose. The water covered his mouth. He didn’t turn back. And only when he showed he trusted God more than he feared drowning… the sea began to slowly move.

The sky changed first, colours rippling like fire and gold. The clouds twisted like they were being pulled open. The wind rose, carrying a sound that wasn’t quite thunder and wasn’t quite singing. The water trembled. Then the sea split.

Not slowly. Not gently. It tore open like the world was being rewritten.

Two walls of water rose high on either side, glowing with the strange light above. Between them was a narrow path, wet and shining, stretching into the impossible. People gasped. Some fell to their knees. Some shouted “Baruch Hashem!” I just stared because I didn’t have words big enough for what I was seeing.

My father lifted me.

“Leib”, he whispered, “God made a way”.

We stepped into the path. The ground was cold and slippery. The air hummed like it was alive, like it was breathing with us. The water beside us stood like tall glass. I could see fish swimming inside it, confused but calm. Their scales caught the strange light, making them look like tiny sparks. We walked fast. Everyone did. No one wanted to look back. But I did.

I saw Pharaoh’s army reach the shore. I saw their anger. I saw their chariots race into the path after us. The horses’ hooves splashed water that didn’t fall. The soldiers shouted words I didn’t understand. Their faces looked small compared to the walls of water. When the last of us stepped onto the far side, Moses lowered his staff.

The sea roared. The walls collapsed. The water swallowed the soldiers, the chariots, the fear. The sound shook my bones. And for the first time in my life, I saw my father cry — not from pain, not from fear, but from freedom.

He held me close.

“Leib”, he said, “remember this. God didn’t just save our bodies. He saved our hearts”. And I have remembered. All my life.

I was there. I saw the sea open. I saw faith split the water. I saw God break the chains Egypt put inside us. I saw freedom become real.

And I will never forget the night the sea listened.

PWB 08/26