These young ones. They do not understand. There are so few of us left who remember how destructive rebellion is. The slaughter after the Golden Calf was worshiped. The thousands who died. The firestorm that burned the outer rim of camp when the foreigners among us incited a riot. They take for granted the miraculous water that feeds this multitude. They have eaten the manna every day of their lives and do not see the utter strangeness of it. They have not felt the desperation of thirst or the hopelessness of hunger. All they do is complain,

When had my sister's words become so barbed and poisoned? Grief had sharpened her tongue to a fine point.

There was no use wondering about the past.

You can tuck your head under your wing for a while...and wait out this storm. But you will fly again.