speak or crush the stone

A great man once lived who was a sage leader of an unknown people. For four decades he led these nomadic people on a soul journey through the wilderness of identity. This reluctant leader listened to the moans and complaints of the people and finally became weary of their lack of faith in the promise given to them. Frustration was his companion.

One day on the side of an ancient mountain he heard the voice of the One God. In a time when the people were famished and their souls dry like the desert, the One of Being asked him to give aid to the people’s cry. He was to speak to the mountain rock, speak to the center of where lies an abundant stream of water to nourish body and soul.

The frustrated leader acted not from his heart but from his emotional dross and smites the mountain rock with his staff. Despite the leader’s actions, the One God used the man’s wrong doing and brought forth water for the people. Symbolically the people who had been entrusted to the leader were the mountain rock, but the man was unaware of the symbol until later in his life.

This frustrated leader loved and hated by the people never physically saw the final destination of the people, yet he passed on with the promise in place in the center of his being knowing that the One God would bring about the identity of the people who followed the Name.

I have found myself in this ancient story. For I am the leader of a people; the people are the ones who have been entrusted to my care. My frustration seems to grow from an unrealized dream. I listen to the complaints and the bickering amongst my children. It fuels my angst that nothing wonderful can come this way. And so the seed of discontent plants itself; its roots take hold of my words. When I am tested to be their life caretaker amidst their nagging and complaining, I strike out with careful chosen words that sting ever so slightly or give a quick jab to whatever inanimate object might be near.

I am walking in the Moses story on so many levels. Out of my frustration and discontent, I traverse the days hoping that one day something wonderful will come this way.

Last night I was brought to this revelation of the story I am in by the simple reaction to a poignant scene in the movie the Bridge to Terabithia. I found myself covered in a sea of tears as I watched a father give striking verbal blows to his dreamer son. Wading in my own sorrow, I looked over to see my middle daughter sobbing. Somehow this simple fantasy story transported a real father and daughter to the harsh reality of how things are at home.

But all is not lost. Hope still lingers, because in my heart I know that if I am hearing the soul of my family cry out, then I am not too far away from the arms of Grace. With my humbled heart I reach out to the One who Heals all and ask for his Mercy. And I know that He restores the broken dreams of his people. Maybe something wonderful has come this way and it dwells in the hearts of the ones I have been entrusted to love and care for.