I was a water-carrier’s son, born in the wilderness during our long journey from slavery to freedom. My name was Talem, and I never expected Moshe—you may know him as Moses—to speak to me. But that day in Kadesh, I saw everything.
The sun pressed down like a heavy hand, and the ground cracked beneath our tired feet. We had no water, and the people were angry. My father joined the elders, begging Moshe for help.
“Did you bring us here to die?” some shouted. Others wept.
I saw it all from behind a barrel, where I had crawled to escape the heat. I wasn’t supposed to be there, but curiosity always got me into trouble.
Moshe—our greatest leader, the one who split the sea and spoke with Hashem, the name we use to speak of God with reverence—walked into the crowd, his face tight and weary. I had never seen him like that before. He and his brother Aharon—Aaron, the High Priest—stood silently for a moment.
Then Moshe and Aharon went to the Ohel Mo’ed, the Tent of Meeting where God’s presence would appear. I waited near the entrance, heart pounding. A glow filled the air as Hashem’s voice came to Moshe. Though I couldn’t hear the words, I saw Moshe’s shoulders rise… and then fall.
Later, I would learn: Hashem had told Moshe to speak to the rock, and it would give water. Speak, not strike.
But when they returned, Moshe stood before all the people and lifted his staff—not in peace, but in frustration.
“Listen, rebels!” he cried. “Shall we bring water for you from this rock?”
I shrank back.
Then—crack! He hit the rock once. Crack! He hit it again.
Water burst out, gushing like rain after a drought. People shouted and ran forward with empty jars. I ran too, scooping the cool water in my hands. My lips were dry and my heart light.
But I saw something else. Moshe’s shoulders slumped. His eyes didn’t shine the way I thought they would.
That night, I heard my father talking with the others.
“Hashem was not pleased,” he whispered. “Moshe did not follow the command.”
“But he brought us water!” someone objected.
“Yes,” my father said. “But this was a deeper test. He was to lead with faith, not frustration.”
Weeks later, the whole camp whispered: Moshe would not enter the land of Canaan. The leader of our exodus, the man who faced Pharaoh and brought down the tablets from Mount Sinai—he would see the land from afar, but never walk it.
I didn’t understand it all then. I just felt sad.
Now, as an old man, I understand better. Even the greatest among us must be careful with their choices. One moment of anger, one quick strike, can shape a legacy.
I still remember the water on my tongue that day—and the look in Moshe’s eyes when he knew he had let God down.
True leadership isn’t just about power. It’s about trust—especially when the world is watching.
I was a water-carrier’s son, born in the wilderness during our long journey from slavery to freedom. My name was Talem, and I never expected Moshe—you may know him as Moses—to speak to me. But that day in Kadesh, I saw everything.
The sun pressed down like a heavy hand, and the ground cracked beneath our tired feet. We had no water, and the people were angry. My father joined the elders, begging Moshe for help.
“Did you bring us here to die?” some shouted. Others wept.
I saw it all from behind a barrel, where I had crawled to escape the heat. I wasn’t supposed to be there, but curiosity always got me into trouble.
Moshe—our greatest leader, the one who split the sea and spoke with Hashem, the name we use to speak of God with reverence—walked into the crowd, his face tight and weary. I had never seen him like that before. He and his brother Aharon—Aaron, the High Priest—stood silently for a moment.
Then Moshe and Aharon went to the Ohel Mo’ed, the Tent of Meeting where God’s presence would appear. I waited near the entrance, heart pounding. A glow filled the air as Hashem’s voice came to Moshe. Though I couldn’t hear the words, I saw Moshe’s shoulders rise… and then fall.
Later, I would learn: Hashem had told Moshe to speak to the rock, and it would give water. Speak, not strike.
But when they returned, Moshe stood before all the people and lifted his staff—not in peace, but in frustration.
“Listen, rebels!” he cried. “Shall we bring water for you from this rock?”
I shrank back.
Then—crack! He hit the rock once. Crack! He hit it again.
Water burst out, gushing like rain after a drought. People shouted and ran forward with empty jars. I ran too, scooping the cool water in my hands. My lips were dry and my heart light.
But I saw something else. Moshe’s shoulders slumped. His eyes didn’t shine the way I thought they would.
That night, I heard my father talking with the others.
“Hashem was not pleased,” he whispered. “Moshe did not follow the command.”
“But he brought us water!” someone objected.
“Yes,” my father said. “But this was a deeper test. He was to lead with faith, not frustration.”
Weeks later, the whole camp whispered: Moshe would not enter the land of Canaan. The leader of our exodus, the man who faced Pharaoh and brought down the tablets from Mount Sinai—he would see the land from afar, but never walk it.
I didn’t understand it all then. I just felt sad.
Now, as an old man, I understand better. Even the greatest among us must be careful with their choices. One moment of anger, one quick strike, can shape a legacy.
I still remember the water on my tongue that day—and the look in Moshe’s eyes when he knew he had let God down.
True leadership isn’t just about power. It’s about trust—especially when the world is watching.
