Passed Over

Not everyone slept in Egypt that night.

There was blood on the doors. Roasted lamb on the table. A strange stillness in the air, like the wind itself was holding its breath. Inside the homes of the Israelites, parents sat with their children—some in peace, some in panic.

They had done what God asked. But still… what if? What if they missed a step? What if the blood wasn’t enough? What if God was angrier than they realized?

Eli couldn’t stop checking the door. He was a first-time father. His son, Micah, was six—still young enough to hold onto his hand in a crowd, old enough to ask the hard questions. Eli was faithful. Careful. He had done everything Moses commanded. The lamb had been chosen, slaughtered, the blood brushed across the doorposts. The meal was prepared. But his hands were shaking. He barely touched the food. He kept glancing at the doorway like it might whisper something back to him.

Next door, Caleb was leaning back with his three sons—teenagers who still ate like toddlers but no longer fit in your lap. Their home was marked too. The table was full. The songs were soft but sure. Caleb wasn’t careless. He just believed the Lord would do what He said. That the blood was enough.

Both men obeyed. Both homes were covered. But one heart was at rest—and the other wasn’t. So when the morning came, which one lost a son?

Neither. Because the power wasn’t in their peace or their panic. It wasn’t in the steadiness of their prayers or the strength of their faith. It was in the blood.

I’ve had Eli nights. Standing over Judah’s crib, just watching him breathe. Whispering prayers that feel more like questions. Some nights, I’m bold and certain. I pray like Caleb, like I trust every word without flinching. Other nights, I pray like Eli—tired, afraid, just hoping I’ve done enough.

But it was never about how convincing the prayer sounded. Or how much certainty you could squeeze into your chest. It’s always been about the Lamb.

This is the week of Passover. And Easter Sunday is almost here. The same God who passed over Egypt didn’t stop at sparing sons. He gave His own. Once again, it came down to blood on wood. Once again, death approached. And once again, it was turned away—not because of how strong we felt, but because of what God provided.

The Lamb of God—Jesus—hung where the lamb of Exodus once lay. And His blood now marks something greater than doorways. It marks souls. It covers shame. It speaks louder than fear, louder than doubt, louder than death.

That night in Egypt, the blood held back the darkness. At the cross, the blood crushed it.

So if you’re tired this week—if your prayers are clumsy, if your peace is thin—remember this: It is not the strength of your belief that saves you. It is the strength of the One in whom you believe. And His blood still speaks.

It is enough. It will always be enough.