He stood beneath the whispering trees, old soil under trembling knees. Altars built from memory’s flame, then came the Voice, and called his name.

Jacob, Jacob. Not once, but twice, as if to stir what had turned to ice. The God of Isaac, steady and slow, said, Fear not the path where you must go.

“I go with you,” the silence broke, in fireless cloud, in windless smoke. “I’ll bring you back, though time runs deep; Joseph shall close your eyes in sleep.”

So forward moved the one grown gray, with tears not brushed but blessed to stay. For when God speaks along the sand, we do not walk, we hold His hand.