The ground was dry - shrinking and cracking in its thirst for water. The sun’s torturous rays deepened the cracks, and increased its thirst beyond endurance.
The ground cried out, “God, I’m so thirsty! Please, send me water!”
And God answered.
But not in the way the ground expected.
A shovel pierced through its outer crust, sending dry flat clods of dirt flying. The ground cried out in pain, “Wait! What are you doing, God? I need water, not more pain.”
But the Lord said nothing. He kept shoveling and digging and breaking up the ground, occasionally hitting a rock or piece of worthless debris and tossing it aside.
The ground longed for tears, would have welcomed even that salty moisture, to express its pain. But none came. So it cried with a dry parched moaning.
And God kept scooping and gouging.
The ground felt pieces of itself being removed.
“You’re killing me, God,” the ground said. “Why are you doing this to me? I NEED that dirt to survive. If you keep on digging, there will be nothing left of me. I’ll be empty.”
“Exactly,” said the Digger, in between shovelfuls.
It seemed like an eternity before God paused in His work. By now, the hole was so deep that the Digger was standing in its depth, looking down at the ground beneath His feet. A smile played at His lips, and then a laugh echoed off the walls of the dark hole.
The ground stopped its groaning and complaining.
It felt a strange sensation in the deepest part of its pain – moisture, droplets, then trickles of water began seeping into the hole, into the emptiness. The Lord laughed as the water slowly gurgled in around His feet, up his legs, under His arms, until He finally had to paddle to stay afloat.
The ground shouted in joy, “Water, at last, water! Blessed water, drawn from this well…” then paused and cried, “this well of wounding.”
The ground drank deeply, and the ground was happy.
Time passed and one day a thirsty traveler passed by the well. He spotted a cup tied to a rope above the well, and lowered it into the water. The Digger filled the cup for the stranger, and the well gladly gave from its abundance. The traveler was refreshed by the water, the living water, and went on his way, strengthened to continue his journey.
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The writer and the Word smiled, forgetting the pain that drew the water, the words. Together, they scooped out the living water one cupful at a time, one word at a time, to a very thirsty world.
“With joy you will draw water from the wells of salvation.” Isaiah 12:3
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