Matthew 2:13-23
The dream came in the night,
sharp and urgent as a blade:
Rise. Take the child and his mother.
Flee to Egypt. Now.
I woke with my heart hammering,
Mary breathing softly beside me,
the baby asleep in his basket.
Herod seeks the child’s life.
Words that changed everything.
We had visitors days before—
strange men from the East
with expensive gifts and stranger questions.
They knelt before my son—
as if he were a king.
I didn’t understand it then.
I’m not sure I understand it now.
But the dream made one thing clear:
this child—my son, not my son—
mattered enough to kill for.
We left before dawn.
I took what I could carry:
a few tools, some bread, the coins
those visitors had given us.
Mary wrapped the baby tight
and didn’t ask questions.
She knew, as I did,
that obedience meant survival.
Egypt.
A place our people fled from once,
now our only refuge.
Strange how YHWH works.
I don’t know which is harder:
that the other fathers had no warning,
or that I did.
Does the LORD give dreams
only to some?
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