Moses at Home Hardware

Roz Runs into Moses at the Hardware Store Faith, Freeze-Dried Hummus, and the God of Aisle Seven

I went into Home Depot for WD-40 and one of those bungee cords that always ends up snapping back and smacking you in the face like an ex who still owes you money and somehow still texts “u up?”

That was the plan.

In, out, maybe silently judge someone’s choice in mulch on the way.

Nothing divine.

Just Roz, a list, and a mild hatred for elastic tension.

Then—I hit aisle seven.

Nylon rope. Survival gear for men who think the apocalypse will be defeated with jerky and a strong jawline. And who’s standing there like he’s comparing messiah discounts?

Moses.

Yes, that Moses.

Beard. Sandals. Eyes like he’s seen civilization try and fail enough times to stop believing in democracy or flavored coffee. He’s holding a coil of climbing rope like it’s Leviticus.

Helmet under one arm. Two pairs of Billy boots in the cart—one black, one “desert almond,” which sounds like a vegan candle scent that gives you trust issues.

He’s got a ziplock bag with a rain poncho, a couple of mini fire starters, and I swear on every mother who ever packed a second sweater, a solar-powered water purifier shaped like a shofar.

He tries to scan it upside-down, then mutters,

“Do you know if they still carry the burning bush section?”

“Seasonal,” I say.

“Right between patio lanterns and divine judgement.”

He nods like this is useful.

Then asks the paint guy if they accept shekels.

Actual. Shekels.

From a pouch. With a drawstring.

I watch as the poor kid types “S-H-E-K-A-L” into the register like he’s summoning a coupon from Leviticus.

His staff?

A mop handle. Probably scanned as “Divine Intervention Kit, Minor Assembly Required.”

“Roz,” he says, like I’m a prophecy wrapped in denim and sarcasm.

I look him up and down.

“Forgot your flaming bush or just left it double-parked? Also, do divine fire codes apply in the parking lot?”

He smiles; lifts the rope like it’s a calling card.

“Climbing Sinai again. Thought I’d give it another go. No entourage this time. No golden calves. Just me and the elements.”

I blink.

“You think God’s waiting with a scroll and a hug, or are you just hoping He updated the commandments with emojis?”

He shrugs, like this is normal.

“It’s been a while. Better boots. Stronger legs. Fewer people yelling at me. Maybe this time I won’t break the tablets.”

“Honey,” I say,

“If you try climbing Sinai now, you're gonna need a sherpa, two cortisone shots, and a miracle.”

He waves me off and pulls out a compass. A plastic one. Looked like it came from a Cracker Jack box and had been calibrated by a burning bush on edibles. Then—and I swear I’m not making this up—he holds it up to a solar-powered projector playing a YouTube video that’s looping some guy in hiking boots saying,

‘Step one: Accept that He’s not texting back.’

“Backup compass,” he says, dead serious.

“Mo,” I say, “you parted the Red Sea. Now you’re calibrating your spiritual journey with something that needs AAA batteries.”

He blushes. Moses. Blushes. The guy who allegedly rained frogs and freedom now turning pink like a millennial trying to explain NFTs to their grandma.

“It’s symbolic,” he mutters.

“I learned about intentional wandering on a podcast.”

Of course he did.

Probably while making kefir in a mason jar shaped like the Ark.

I scan his cart again: two types of rope, three canisters of something flammable, and a clipboard that says “Plagues: Updated Draft.”

I am one waterproof poncho away from being collateral damage in a midlife prophecy.

Then he starts comparing ropes and carabiners like he’s choosing between kombucha brands.

“This one has a slightly higher divine torque rating,” he murmurs.

“According to the online reviews.”

I stare. He pulls out a vacuum-sealed bag of freeze-dried hummus and sniffs it like it’s single-origin espresso from a desert micro-roastery.

“Tradition,” he says.

“Tradition? Baby, your tradition is forty years of bad directions and people yelling about meat. My tradition is complaining for forty seconds at self-checkout before saying ‘screw it’ and leaving the kale behind.”

We’re standing there, surrounded by titanium tent stakes and overpriced weatherproof prayer journals, when I ask the real question:

“What are you hoping to find up there, Mo? Another set of rules? A burning bush with Bluetooth?”

He goes quiet.

“I want to know if it still mattered. If I mattered. If it wasn’t just adrenaline and crowd panic. If I was actually chosen—not just the loudest guy with a stick.”

That hit. Even prophets want confirmation. Most of us just hope we’re chosen for the better parking spot. I hand him the WD-40.

“For the creaky parts.”

“My knees?”

“No. Your self-worth. But it’ll work on the boots too.”

He nods. Adds it to the cart with a 5-gallon bucket of caulk and a pocket Torah annotated with hiking tips.

He tries to skip the line. Says something about being “pre-approved by God.”

The cashier points to the floor.

“Please stand behind the yellow tape until called.”

He does.

Eventually.

And when the receipt prints, he studies it like it's a fresh scroll from Sinai.

“It’s itemized,” he whispers.

“Miracles are, these days,” I say.

The cashier—maybe sixteen, maybe born the year Moses started trending on Twitter—scans his cart with the kind of expression you reserve for abandoned parrots and first dates who won’t stop quoting Plato.

“Do you… have a loyalty card?”

“I have a covenant,” he says.

She pauses, holds up the scanner like it’s holy water, and tries again.

“Would you like to apply for a Home Depot credit card?”

He looks genuinely touched.

“Is there a blessing involved?”

“There’s… 2% cash back on paint.”

He nods solemnly, like that’s what got the Ark sealed.

He tries to pay. The self-checkout freezes. He lifts his staff. Nothing.

I swear I hear thunder, but it’s just a malfunctioning overhead speaker repeating, “Unexpected item in the bagging area.”

He lays hands on the screen.

It restarts in Spanish.

“Close enough,” he whispers.

I watch the exit lights flicker like they’re deciding if he’s still chosen.

We walk out together. He hugs me in the parking lot—beard soft, boots squeaking like spiritual mice doing jazz hands. He mutters something about elevation gain and divine GPS coordinates. I just hope he remembered to set his out-of-office for the next forty years.

Because sometimes, the prophet shows up in aisle seven—sniffing lentils, muttering about God’s latest update—and hoping this time, maybe this time, there’s Wi-Fi at the summit.

fin