50TH DAY OUT OF EGYPT
We stood at the foot of a mountain. The Mountain of Yahweh, many were calling it. The Cloud that had protected us from the hands of Pharaoh hovered above the summit, larger, darker, and now violently booming and flashing sporadic blue lightning. Shoshana huddled beneath Zerah’s arm, and Zayna buried her face in Eben’s shoulder. She twitched every time the thunder rolled out from the mountain, shaking the ground and threatening to knock us from our feet. The sound of it was even more bone-rattling than the storms that had plagued Egypt.
Three days had passed since Mosheh had returned to the summit, carrying a promise from the Hebrews and from all of us who chose to be included in a covenant: a promise to Yahweh that we received his offer to be his Am Segula—his special people—and follow his instructions, his Torah.
Eben had taken me aside after the elders relayed Mosheh’s instructions from Yahweh. He said that Jumo and I, anyone who desired so, regardless of their heritage, would be included in this covenant with the Hebrew God, if we chose to take part.
I was Egyptian, my mother and father, both of them born of the Nile, but my heart leapt at the prospect of becoming a part of this nation, the nation that would be called Israel.
From the day I had fallen on my knees and cried out to Yahweh, I had desired to know him better. If I felt his presence there on the sandy floor of an enemy tent, how much more would I know as a part of his chosen people?
Now, after three days of washing, preparing, and making new linen garments, we stood at the foot of the great mountain. All eyes were trained on the path from the top, a white-clad sea of people waiting for the return of Yahweh’s messenger, Mosheh.
Midway through the morning, a tide of murmurs and echoes swam through the crowd.
“Mosheh has returned!”
“There, do you see him?”
The silver-blue Cloud roiled above the mountaintop, and a figure appeared at the foot of the path, standing high above the crowd.
Our families were so far back in the multitude, however, that his voice could not reach us.
But the message rolled back through the crowds.
“. . . Yahweh will speak.”
“. . . his own voice.”
“. . . wonder what it will sound like . . .”
Zayna’s little face peeked out from the sanctuary of Eben’s chest. “Yahweh is going to speak? With his own voice?”
“It sounds that way,” Eben said.
The voice of a god? I had served silent gods—wood, stone, and gold—for eighteen years of my life. And now, this God of the Hebrews would speak? Would we all hear it? Or would the words need to be passed among the multitude?
Jumo’s eyes were locked on the summit of the mountain. The flashes of lightning reflected blue in his dark eyes. I reached out and put my hand in his. He squeezed, a reassuring gesture, but did not look my way.
A shofar sounded in the distance. Once again, the eerie sound raised the hair on the back of my neck and sent a mixture of longing and fear through my veins. The sound began to grow and build. It must be moving closer to us. It continued to intensify, coming not from the valley floor but from the summit of the mountain.
This was no ordinary instrument, and no human breath could produce this loud of a tone.
Louder.
Louder.
Ear-splitting.
Many around us covered their ears. Children shrieked at the abuse of their eardrums.
My bones vibrated in rhythm with the complicated patterns of notes echoing off the steep cliffs all around this protective valley. Who—or what—was giving breath to these ethereal instruments?
As the notes grew louder, the Cloud sitting atop the mountain seemed to respond in kind, billowing higher into the sky and blazing brighter as it did. It became a swirling rainbow of color, hues of every shade, some I had never seen before. The sensations were overwhelming—light, colors, and sound.
A Voice emanated from the Cloud, knocking me to my knees. An earthquake shook the valley, rattling the mountains and tossing boulders about like pebbles.
Most everyone was on their knees, or on their faces, many pleading or crying, some screaming in terror. My body instinctively attempted to struggle, to stand, but the weight of the force was immense.
Every horrible thing I had ever said, done, or thought swirled through my mind. Every time I cursed Tekurah, every time I disobeyed my mother, every disrespectful word I had spoken to Salima, every patronizing one to Shira, the nights I had spent with Akhum . . .
And the thoughts—the thoughts were even worse than the words or actions—every dark, violent, or evil imagining that had ever flickered inside my brain bubbled to the surface, ripped and tore its way through my consciousness. My stomach quelled violently at just how depraved I could be. I was black inside, filled with hate and pettiness.
The Voice did this; with only one pure syllable it stripped me bare, and I was undone. I hadn’t even discerned the word spoken by Yahweh. The echo of it swirled around the valley, bounced off the cliffs, rose above us, and dissipated into the sky.
As the echo of the word died away, it left me with an emptiness at my core. Vaguely aware of those around me, their faces slowly blurring back into focus, I was not the only one decimated under the scrutiny of the Voice.
Most were sobbing, eyes closed, gripping their stomachs with clenched fists.
Eben was on the ground next to me, his face in the sand, arms outstretched toward the mountain. Shira crouched in front of me, protective arms wrapped around Shoshana, but Shoshana held her chin high, gazing at the face of the mountain. Her head was not bowed.
I peeked at Zayna sitting on the ground next to Eben. Her hand rubbed circles on his back. The precious girl was reassuring her older brother. Her upturned face was so peaceful, so joyful. A stab of envy shot through me. The Voice broke me into a million pieces, but the girls were enraptured. In fact, all of the children were looking up, their faces bright with the same fierce joy. They were not afraid of the Voice; they must hear something in it that I could not understand.
The Voice sent splinters of fear shredding through my veins, but I ached for it at the same time. I could not reconcile the confusing emotions.
The Voice spoke again. This time, the words filled my senses. They hung shimmering, as though written in the air, visible and musical—a song far more beautiful than human words could describe. And the fragrance . . . How could words have a smell? But they did, and it was the sweetest and loveliest smell to ever be imagined. I had smelled a shadow of it before, while I lay on a sandy floor with my hands bound. There was no spice fragrant enough, no breeze sweet enough, no fruit ripe enough to compare to the smell that permeated this valley. I pulled in an open-mouthed breath that melted on my tongue like a luscious delicacy.
The Voice told us that he was Yahweh, the God who had rescued us from Egypt, and there were to be no other gods before him. For hours, maybe days, he told us what he expected of us. He taught us, like little children, everything he wanted us to do, how we should live and treat each other, and most of all, how we should respect him, our God.
And what he promised, if we obeyed him like little children, was so far beyond what I expected. Yes, there were consequences for our disobedience, but the promises far outweighed them. We were to be his Am Segula—a special chosen nation, and as his people, we would inherit the promise given to Avraham so long ago, the land specially chosen to bless his family. But even more exciting was that Yahweh promised to be among his people, to reside with us, and teach us, protect us, and guide us. How could that be? A god, walking among humans?
When the last of the precious words shimmered away, I stayed on my knees, wishing the Voice would speak again. I wanted the song to fill my ears and heart forever. I ached long after the echo faded and knew I would do so for all my days. I understood every one of Yahweh’s words, but had he spoken in Egyptian? Or Hebrew? Or something else that my soul understood instinctively? I tried to remember the specific words, but only the meaning rang through me.
Long minutes passed before people began coming to their feet and moving off toward their tents, slow and silent.
I stayed on my knees in the sand, willing the Voice to return. But when Shira finally stood, I did as well. She put her arms around me—her face full of the joy that I had seen on the girls’ faces, and I knew mine must be a reflection of that as well.
“Kiya,” a voice said.
I glanced at Eben, thinking it was he who spoke my name, but he stared at something behind me, a startled look on his tear-stained face.
I spun around. Jumo was behind me.
“Kiya,” he said again.
Shock flooded me, and I blinked hard and fast. “Did you just . . . ?” I whispered.
He nodded.
“Sister, I can speak easily now.” Tears streamed down his face, and mine.
“How . . . ?”
“I am healed.” He spoke with reverence; an awe filled his new voice that almost brought me to my knees again.
My mouth gaped; no coherent words would form.
“The very first word that Yahweh spoke healed me. I knew instantly that I could speak. And . . .” He stepped back, then turned and walked in a circle. Smooth, effortless movements.
My brother was completely healed. His speech was clear, and his legs were whole—as if he had never been afflicted in the first place.