I was one of the stone-carriers—one of the countless silent workers who followed our people through the wilderness. You wouldn’t know my name, and that’s fine. My job was to lift and build, not to lead or speak. But I was there. I saw it all—the day Moses struck the rock. Again.
The sun had baked the earth into cracked clay beneath our feet. We had just buried Miriam—Moses’ sister—a heartbreak that seemed to take all the moisture from the air along with her spirit. The people were mourning, but the complaints came anyway. “Why did you bring us out of Egypt to die in a dry place?” they shouted. “There is no water!”
I understood their fear. I had children. Their lips were dry and swollen. Even I doubted. Would God let us suffer this long just to abandon us now?
Moses walked past me that morning without a word. His face—so full of quiet strength over the years—looked different. Tight. Tired. He and Aaron entered the Tent of Meeting, the holy place where the clouds would gather and God would speak. When they came out, the people fell into silence. We had learned that when Moses held his staff, something was about to happen.
I walked closer, one hand resting on the stone wall I’d helped build. Moses stood before the rock, the crowd spread out behind him. He raised his voice: “Listen now, you rebels! Shall we bring water for you from this rock?”
Then it happened. He raised his staff and struck the rock. Once. Twice.
Water burst out in a rush, spraying dust into mud, streams forming around our ankles. People ran, laughing, filling clay pots and jars.
At first, I was relieved. Then confused. I remembered when, years ago, Moses had brought water from a rock before—but back then, he was told to strike. This time, I had overheard the instructions. God had said, “Speak to the rock.”
So why strike it?
That night, rumors spread fast. God had spoken again. Moses and Aaron—our great leaders—had disobeyed. It didn’t seem true. Not Moses. But I saw his face the next morning. Empty. Quiet. His eyes sagged with unshed tears.
He gathered us and said, “Because you did not believe in Me, to sanctify Me in the eyes of the children of Israel, you will not bring this congregation into the land I have given them.” His voice didn’t shake, but mine would have.
Moses—who had faced Pharaoh in Egypt, who parted the sea, who climbed Mount Sinai in smoke and fire—would not enter the Promised Land.
I didn’t understand it then. The punishment felt too strong. But over time, I realized something. Leadership isn’t about power. It’s about trust. Not just trusting God yourself, but helping others trust Him too. And in that moment, Moses had let the moment beat him. Just once. But it mattered.
So now, when I feel the urge to act out of frustration—even just a little—I remember the rock. And the water that cost Moses the land.
I was one of the stone-carriers—one of the countless silent workers who followed our people through the wilderness. You wouldn’t know my name, and that’s fine. My job was to lift and build, not to lead or speak. But I was there. I saw it all—the day Moses struck the rock. Again.
The sun had baked the earth into cracked clay beneath our feet. We had just buried Miriam—Moses’ sister—a heartbreak that seemed to take all the moisture from the air along with her spirit. The people were mourning, but the complaints came anyway. “Why did you bring us out of Egypt to die in a dry place?” they shouted. “There is no water!”
I understood their fear. I had children. Their lips were dry and swollen. Even I doubted. Would God let us suffer this long just to abandon us now?
Moses walked past me that morning without a word. His face—so full of quiet strength over the years—looked different. Tight. Tired. He and Aaron entered the Tent of Meeting, the holy place where the clouds would gather and God would speak. When they came out, the people fell into silence. We had learned that when Moses held his staff, something was about to happen.
I walked closer, one hand resting on the stone wall I’d helped build. Moses stood before the rock, the crowd spread out behind him. He raised his voice: “Listen now, you rebels! Shall we bring water for you from this rock?”
Then it happened. He raised his staff and struck the rock. Once. Twice.
Water burst out in a rush, spraying dust into mud, streams forming around our ankles. People ran, laughing, filling clay pots and jars.
At first, I was relieved. Then confused. I remembered when, years ago, Moses had brought water from a rock before—but back then, he was told to strike. This time, I had overheard the instructions. God had said, “Speak to the rock.”
So why strike it?
That night, rumors spread fast. God had spoken again. Moses and Aaron—our great leaders—had disobeyed. It didn’t seem true. Not Moses. But I saw his face the next morning. Empty. Quiet. His eyes sagged with unshed tears.
He gathered us and said, “Because you did not believe in Me, to sanctify Me in the eyes of the children of Israel, you will not bring this congregation into the land I have given them.” His voice didn’t shake, but mine would have.
Moses—who had faced Pharaoh in Egypt, who parted the sea, who climbed Mount Sinai in smoke and fire—would not enter the Promised Land.
I didn’t understand it then. The punishment felt too strong. But over time, I realized something. Leadership isn’t about power. It’s about trust. Not just trusting God yourself, but helping others trust Him too. And in that moment, Moses had let the moment beat him. Just once. But it mattered.
So now, when I feel the urge to act out of frustration—even just a little—I remember the rock. And the water that cost Moses the land.
