In the morning, my father and the other nine naysayers among the twelve spies were found dead on their pallets. I helped bury him that day, then shouldered my pack and prepared to begin this journey with no destination.
Invisible walls had grown overnight, dividing parent and child. Together, yet alone, we faced the hot winds as we were led mercilessly away from Canaans borders. We would learn to live with death.
I STOOD on the banks of the Jordan at last, watching with tears as the Levites bore the Ark across the dry riverbed. My sons and grandsons stood beside me. I suppose they thought I wept for joy at the crossing into Canaan, and I did
but I also wept for my father, who was unable to believe in this day.
Once humiliated by his sin, I had come face to face with my own iniquity, too late regretting the proud words with which I had flayed him on his last day. So soon I saw people my age defile themselves with the whores of Moab, seduced by Balaams sorcery into lustful disobedience. No generation is immune from poor choices.
But I also witnessed faith in the wilderness. Joshua and Caleb had seemed immune to the ravages of those years. Other men and women shriveled and perished, but these two became hardier, tougher. They drew sustenance and strength from a never-failing source. They could walk as far, see as keenly, fight as hard as any man my age.
Led by the example of these two grasshoppers, we would enter the land
and take it.