Nothing is finished. Not really. The lines and forms, the textures and consistencies,

the molecular structure and synaptic connections, a tree or a river or a cloud or a heart.

It's all raw material in the hands of a god

with a penchant for creation,

a taste for metamorphosis.

This is a story about transformation,

about one thing giving way to another at the behest of the divine.

It's a story about what's in a name, about the dangers of self-delusion, about the inevitability

of doubt. And it's a story about the unreasonable, inefficient, spectacular ways of God. I'm Justin

Gerhardt. Welcome to Holy Ghost Stories.

Thank you. The

The A staff strikes rock and pierces sand.

Moving in rhythm with its owner, the sturdy timber leaves a second set of prints alongside the old man as he journeys across yet another

mile of uninhabited wilderness. He shields his eyes with weathered hands. His face bears unmistakable

echoes of Jakobed and Amram. Each of them reflected variously in the angle of his cheekbones,

the thickness of his brow, the shape of his nose, the way he smiles when he sees Moses.

And now, at long last, after a secret exit from Egypt and weeks of walking, Aaron stands at the foot of the mountain of God, at the command

of God, and grins at his little brother.

"'You're old,' he says, perhaps.

"'You're older,' Moses shoots back, surely.

They embrace, kiss one another on wrinkled, tear-stained cheeks,

and sit down in the shade. Moses has so much to tell him. Moses looks out at the bowed heads of the Israelites elders.

...