We have a water problem out here in the country. We knew it when we bought the land. We knew it when we dug our well. And we know it every time we haul back-breakingly heavy jugs of drinkable water from the store, and wrestle more manageable portions of it into a pitcher we leave on our kitchen island.
It’s our system, but it isn’t a perfect system. Pitchers break. We’ve shattered more glass than a cathedral’s worth of windows. So, we gave up on glass and moved on to metal. But even pitchers that don’t break only hold a finite amount of water. We fill it. And fill it. And fill it. And, I do not remember what fresh, cold water tastes like. Our poor little pitcher does not come with an in-built cooling system, nor a filter. It’s only job is to hold it’s contents.
Has that become my job description? Jo: Wife. Mother of six. Reservoir of old material, levels dropping, inspiration growing stale? Maybe it is. I am guilty of tapping into my own experience to diagnose, bandage and sustain myself through my present circumstances. I do it a lot. Instead of lifting a fresh, glittering drop of scripture to my lips, or letting the morning mist of daily prayer soothe my skin, I lower the ladle of my hands deep into the old, murky water of recycled thoughts and self-muddied lessons learned. I am a pitcher, filled with once-crystalline revelations, now gone warm and still.
Anyone could tell you that running water’s the sweet stuff. I don’t know anyone who would stand beside a leaping, chattering stream, and turn away to lap up the water from the puddle beside it. But we do that. All the time we do that when we don’t go to God for refreshment.
As the deer pants for streams of water,
so my soul pants for you, my God.
Psalm 42
Are you thirsty? I’m thirsty. Let’s not gather around the water cooler. Let’s go down to the river and drink.
