The Staff

A short story abot how God will always give us strength, but we still have to take action ourselves.

Words fly like bullets. Trench warfare. That's what it is. Except, everyone's in the same trench. A no man's land filled with barbed insults and primed hate ready to blow, yet nobody's on the other side. Family's funny like that. Your brother could be one of the people you hate most, but at the center, there's a gooey, unconditional love. You only want to help. You have more experience, more knowledge. Not because you're better, or smarter, or more insightful. You're just older, and that's just how it works. You pray, and strive, and scour your brain for an answer, but it just doesn't work. Surely, it's your fault, right? It must be. Something you said, something you did. What was it? You pray, time and time again- you must've forgot the return address. Weeks later, Christmas comes, the relentless rain ceases, the Germans and Brits sing carols. You finally find the obligation to ask him, what was it? You treat me like an idiot, he says. I have a brain, you don't have to think for me, he says. And so it goes, you treat him more intellectually, and the fighting softens to a dull hum. Finally, your letter comes back. It reads: "I didn't part the sea. I just gave Moses the staff."