A Well Story

The school bus pulled out of the drive and I began clearing the table of its breakfast remains.  Without the luxury of a dishwasher, I filled the sink with hot soapy water and carefully slid the dirty dishes into the water.  After six weeks of carrying water from town, I still celebrated running water from the faucet. This dishwashing process had become therapy.

Shortly after we moved, we had located a spot near the house where Oscar, the original owner, had placed an old water hydrant.  When the well diggers finally came, it had not taken long before we had a functioning well.  The aquifer was only 60 feet down into the earth, right near the back porch.  A blessing, so it seemed.

The process of carefully running the dish cloth over each bowl, cup, and silver ware, rinsing each piece, and then drying and returning them to their rightful place filled me with a sense of accomplishment. It had become my meditative time.  Usually, this was a peaceful time, but that morning I was troubled, and I battled between my heart and my mind.

The weekend had been frenetic to say the least.  Looking out the window I saw mud, six-foot weeds by the buildings, work, and more work, and more work. Entropy had set in to this old farm, and although we had been working as hard as we could for the last five months, we were overwhelmed with all that still had to be done.

My heart was heavy.  This was to be a ministry, instead, work was the focus of our lives.  It took a lot to tame these tangled fields, overgrown yards, broken down fences, dilapidated buildings.  On the weekends we had help from the college students who seemed to actually thrive on the challenge.  But during the week, we, our little family, were faced with the stark reality of what we had jumped into with such enthusiasm.  And . . . all we had was our muscle.  No equipment.  After we had signed the papers for the farm, there had been a farm auction.  All the equipment that Oscar had used was gone now.  What we had in our possession were shovels, picks, rakes, the always in-use brush clippers, and a newly purchased old pickup truck to “haul things.”

The kitchen clean, the dishes put away, I slumped into the soft easy chair in the living room. It was time for “quiet time” with the best listener I have.  And I had lots to say that morning. “Lord, I am confused.  Our lives have become consumed with the farm, the buildings, the mud, and . . . hard work!  Did we not hear you right?  Are we stuck here out of our own folly, thinking that you were going to bless us with a wonderful ministry of serving others?  Please, please let us know that we are where we should be, that you are in this with us.”  The lament and the pleading continued for a while. I was trying to listen, but my thoughts were too loud to hear anything from him at the time.   “I need to hear from you,” I concluded. “I am willing to do what you want me to do, but I need to hear from you.”

There are times when God responds in ways that shake us to our core.  Times when we know, without a shadow of a doubt that he is speaking directly to his child.  This was such a time, although the interpretation was not immediately apparent. What happened next was one of those moments.

Feeling thirsty, I rose from my seat of lamentations and headed to the kitchen.   Grabbing a glass from the cupboard, I turned on the faucet and held my glass out expectantly.  But, no water came from the tap, that tap which had been running freely while I had done my dishes. That tap for which I rejoiced earlier that morning.    I froze.  God was speaking, and he definitely had my attention, but the dilemma was, what was the message?  My first thought was, “God is saying, ‘Get out of here.  This was a big mistake.’”  Or . . . what???  This was something I had to share with Judd, immediately.  (To be continued next post)