The Crossing of the Red Sea

Three days out of Egypt. The euphoria is wearing off. And then someone looks back and sees dust on the horizon. Chariots.

Six hundred of Pharaoh's best chariots. Horses. Trained soldiers. Coming for a crowd of unarmed slaves with children on their hips and unleavened bread in their bags. And in front of them: water. Nothing but water.

This is the moment faith gets tested. Not on the mountaintop. In the trap. When the thing you left is chasing you and the future you were promised looks like a dead end.

And the people said to Moses: "Were there no graves in Egypt? Did you bring us out here to die?" I've prayed that prayer. Maybe not with those words. But the feeling. God, did you bring me this far just to let me fail?

And Moses said something that should be written on the wall of every hospital room, every courtroom, every kitchen table where someone is falling apart: "Stand still. And see the salvation of the Lord." And the children of Israel went into the midst of the sea upon dry ground. And the waters were a wall unto them on their right hand and on their left. A wall of water. On both sides. Can you imagine the sound? Not silence. Roaring. The weight of an ocean held back by nothing but a word. And you're walking between it. With your family. With everything you own. On ground that was underwater ten minutes ago.

God didn't remove the sea. He didn't teleport them to the other side. He made them walk through it. They had to feel the wet sand. They had to hear the water. They had to trust every single step that the walls would hold.

Whatever your Red Sea is right now, God is not asking you to understand it. He's asking you to walk. The path might not make sense. It might look insane from the outside. Water on both sides. Army behind you. But the ground under your feet is dry. And that's enough for the next step.

Lord, I don't need to understand the physics of the miracle. I just need to keep walking. One step at a time. Through the impossible. On dry ground.

Amen.