Long before Moses was traveling, wandering, adventuring, whatever, there was a spring. It lay in the middle of the desert; patiently awaiting destiny, it gave no hint as to its existence. No oasis for this well, only desolate empty space surrounding the lid to its flow: a nondescript, sandy-hued rock. No desert-dweller, even the most experienced and knowledgeable, gave this rock a second glance; no one knew the vast potential just under the surface.
As time and caravans passed, the spring still waited.
And waited.
And waited.
Feeling fate drawing nearer.
And nearer.
Knowing that one day soon (maybe tomorrow!) Moses would come, smite the rock and show the spring for what it really was: life, vitality, Savior of the Chosen People. The spring knew. And God knew. But Moses? Maybe he did. But he understood none of the patience, the suspense, the eons followed by centuries spent masked by ordinariness. Sure, the spring knew what was coming, but knowing the end of the game only increases the frustration of playing by the rules, only heightens the anticipation, only stirs the butterflies.
So I will be great some day. What does that make me today?
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