Pass Over Us
a creative narrative inspired by the final plague in Egypt
originally published 3/28/2024 on my Instagram
Caleb slid his hand under the doorway. Out, in, out, in. He craned his neck upward to see the blood. His mother scolded him to stay away from the door, to keep it shut, and not to leave her sight. The news had her more frenzied than usual. Slavery had only gotten worse since the man Moses showed up. The Egyptians lorded over them, and every plague only irritated them more. Now the final plague had been announced—death of the firstborn son. Eva couldn't look at Caleb without a rush of fear overtaking her whole body.
Four days ago they'd heard what they were to do. They picked out a lamb, brought it home, and waited. The children fought over who got to feed him and where he would sleep. Eva warned them not to get too attached, that his days were numbered. Conviction was growing in her. The first few plagues shocked and frustrated her. Blood in the water and frogs in the house. She could still hear the gnats ringing in her ears.
But the fourth plague was different. The God of their fathers set them apart. As if by a great shield around their land, the people of Israel were spared the flies that ruined the land of Egypt. After that, the plagues hadn't touched their land of Goshen. She only looked with her eyes to see the recompense God brought to display his power over the Egyptian gods—the death of the livestock, the boils, the hail, the locusts, and the darkness. She sensed her heart stirring with curiosity and fear. Who is this God of my fathers? Why is he doing this? When will it end? Can I trust him?
As the sun descended, the bleating ceased. Her husband handed the bowl of the lamb's blood to Caleb, "Hold this." Eva breathed deep as he dipped the hyssop into the bowl and touched the lintel and the two doorposts. "Why are you doing that, Father?" Caleb asked. The look on his father's face seemed grave. "Because I want you to live, my son." Eva looked up to see the red-painted doorway through tears, silently pleading to Yahweh for this blood to be powerful enough to let her son live.
They stayed inside the rest of the night, huddled around a fire, eating with angst the roasted lamb and bitter herbs, dreading the moment they'd crawl into bed and fight against that human need for sleep. They recounted the plagues together, how Yahweh had promised each one and gave Pharaoh a chance to listen. They shivered as the visceral remembrance of disturbance, destruction, and death had come so close to them. "Father," Caleb whispered, "Do you think Yahweh will do what he said this time?" His father pulled him into himself. "Caleb, you are my beloved son. It is my duty to protect you," he paused. "But my protection will accomplish nothing tonight. Our only hope is that Yahweh will do what he said and allow us to find refuge under the blood of the lamb. We are at his mercy."
He pondered this as he kept watch with his belt fastened, sandals on, staff in hand. The rest of the family lay as close as possible to one another, Caleb tucked in the arms of his mother. The tension finally melted as the comfort of their nearness brought temporary respite. It felt like only a moment before screams jolted Eva out of sleep. Her heart raced as she oriented herself in the dark. Tonight is the night, she thought as the screams grew louder. Instinctively, she did what felt so familiar to her—she leaned over the mouth of her son, aching to feel the warmth of his breath against her cheek. She held her own, stiff as she'd ever been as she pleaded with Yahweh, and collapsed in sobs when Caleb released his next breath. She kissed his head, again and again, shaking the whole bed with her gladness and relief. Caleb startled and sat bolt upright in disbelief. "I'm alive! I'm here! I'm saved!"
His siblings couldn't help but dance around Caleb, adding to the screams of horror those of gladness and wonder. His parents held on to one another with gripped jaws, sobered by Yahweh's judgment and mercy. Eva felt her resistance give way to trembling faith, and she knew she'd never look at a lamb the same again.