Water, Water, Everywhere, but Not a Drop to Drink
(short version)

Based on Exodus 17:1-7 – Israel, thirsty in the wilderness, questions whether the Lord is among them; water comes from struck rock.

The wind had stopped, but the waiting had not.

By mid-morning, the evacuation centre smelled of damp carpet, instant coffee, and too many people breathing the same air. The basketball hoops hung uselessly above rows of camp chairs. Rainwater still dripped from the hems of jeans and pooled beneath stacked sandbags at the doors.

Lara had been on her feet since 3 a.m. She was the volunteer coordinator, which meant she owned the clipboard and, therefore, apparently, the cyclone.

“Any word on the truck?” someone called.

“On its way,” she said for the fifteenth time. The supply truck had been delayed when the highway flooded near the bridge. Food and bottled water were coming from a nearby emergency staging centre. They just were not here yet.

At the far end of the hall, a toddler began to cry. Not loud at first; just a tired, dry sound. The kind that needles into everyone’s nerves.

A man in a faded blue singlet stepped out of the line and walked toward Lara. He had a little girl on his hip. Her cheeks were blotchy; her hair stuck to her forehead.

“She hasn’t eaten since last night,” he said. Not aggressive. Not yet. Just stating a fact.

“I know,” Lara said. “The truck …”

“Yeah. The truck.” He shifted the child to the other arm. “We’ve all heard about the truck.”

Behind him, more people were listening.

Continue reading the full story here.

Water, Water, Everywhere, but Not a Drop to Drink

Based on Exodus 17:1-7 – Israel, thirsty in the wilderness, questions whether the Lord is among them; water comes from struck rock.

The wind had stopped, but the waiting had not.

By mid-morning, the evacuation centre smelled of damp carpet, instant coffee, and too many people breathing the same air. The basketball hoops hung uselessly above rows of camp chairs. Rainwater still dripped from the hems of jeans and pooled beneath stacked sandbags at the doors.

Lara had been on her feet since 3 a.m. She was the volunteer coordinator, which meant she owned the clipboard and, therefore, apparently, the cyclone.

“Any word on the truck?” someone called.

“On its way,” she said for the fifteenth time. The supply truck had been delayed when the highway flooded near the bridge. Food and bottled water were coming from a nearby emergency staging centre. They just were not here yet.

At the far end of the hall, a toddler began to cry. Not loud at first; just a tired, dry sound. The kind that needles into everyone’s nerves.

A man in a faded blue singlet stepped out of the line and walked toward Lara. He had a little girl on his hip. Her cheeks were blotchy; her hair stuck to her forehead.

“She hasn’t eaten since last night,” he said. Not aggressive. Not yet. Just stating a fact.

“I know,” Lara said. “The truck …”

“Yeah. The truck.” He shifted the child to the other arm. “We’ve all heard about the truck.”

Behind him, more people were listening.

The power had flickered out twice already that morning. The tap water had been declared unsafe until further testing. The only safe drinking water left in the building was what people had brought in their own esky.

Lara had a key in her pocket. It pressed against her thigh like a secret.

The storeroom at the back of the centre held six packs of bottled water and four boxes of emergency ration packs. They had been delivered at dawn by a local pharmacy owner who had broken into his own flooded shop to salvage them. Lara had locked the room and told no one except the nurse.

The nurse had three elderly evacuees on medication that required food. There was also a boy with Type 1 diabetes who had already gone shaky once.

The plan had been simple. Hold the supplies until the truck arrives; use them only if absolutely necessary. Six packs would not last long with two hundred people.

The man in the blue singlet glanced toward the back corridor. “Funny thing,” he said, louder now. “I saw someone carrying a box down there earlier.”

A murmur rose. It moved like wind through grass; soft, then louder.

“What box?” someone asked.

“Water?” another voice said.

Lara felt the key grow heavier.

“Nothing is being hidden,” she said.

“Then unlock it,” the man said.

The toddler started crying again. This time, sharper.

Phones appeared. Someone had already posted in the local Facebook group: No food at the evac centre, but rumours of stock out the back. Typical.

A woman near the doors shook her head. “My mum hasn’t had breakfast,” she said. “If there’s food—”

“There isn’t,” Lara said, too quickly.

The word hung there.

The man’s jaw tightened. “You just said nothing was being hidden.”

“And there isn’t,” she said again, though the key burned in her pocket.

He took a step closer. Not threatening, but no longer patient. “So unlock it.”

The hall had gone quiet except for the toddler and the hum of the emergency generator.

Lara could feel it tipping. The shift from frustration to accusation. From waiting to judging.

“You don’t get to decide who eats,” the man said.

The sentence landed harder than he intended. He looked surprised by his own volume.

Someone near the back said, “This is ridiculous. We’re not animals.”

“No,” another replied. “But we’re being treated like we are.”

The nurse appeared in the corridor, eyes wide. She gave the smallest shake of her head. Not yet.

Lara thought about the three elderly evacuees sitting on fold-out beds behind a makeshift curtain. About the boy whose mother was counting jellybeans to keep his blood sugar steady. About two hundred people who would rush a stack of six packs if she rolled them out now.

The man shifted his daughter again. She had stopped crying; she just watched.

“If there’s food,” he said quietly, “and you’re holding it back—”

A plastic chair scraped sharply across the floor. The sound made everyone flinch.

Lara reached into her pocket.

The key caught the light as she held it up.

“There are six packs of water,” she said. “And four boxes of ration packs.”

A ripple moved through the crowd.

“They were delivered for medical emergencies. For people who will end up in hospital if they don’t eat in the next hour.”

“So what are we?” someone shouted. “Optional?”

“You’re exhausted,” she said. “You’re frightened. So am I. But if I open that door right now, it will be gone in ten minutes. And the ones who need it most won’t get any.”

The man in the blue singlet stared at her. “How do we know that’s true?”

“You don’t,” she said.

The honesty surprised even her.

From outside came the distant grind of gears.

Everyone turned.

A low rumble grew louder; diesel, heavy, unmistakable. A white truck crawled into the car park, mud splashed halfway up its sides. The logo of the emergency services gleamed under a smear of rain.

For a second, no one moved.

Then someone laughed. Not loudly; just once. Relief breaking through like a crack in concrete.

The roller door at the side of the hall shuddered as volunteers pushed it up. Pallets wrapped in plastic came into view; boxes of bottled water stacked higher than a person; packs of long-life milk; cartons of cereal; foil trays of prepared meals.

The crowd exhaled as one body.

Lara lowered the key.

The man in the blue singlet looked at the truck, then at her. His daughter rested her head on his shoulder.

“We almost…” he began, and didn’t finish.

Lara nodded. “Yeah.”

No one apologised. Not properly. They just formed a line without being told. Phones slipped back into pockets. Voices softened.

The nurse touched Lara’s arm. “We’ll still need those packs,” she said quietly.

“I know.”

As the first bottles were handed out, the toddler in the blue singlet’s arms twisted around and reached for one. Water sloshed against clear plastic. Ordinary. Abundant.

The hall filled with the sound of caps twisting open.

Outside, the wind had stopped entirely.