In Living Water

John 4:1-26

The green numbers on the oven read 5:22pm and the children are acting like it. One cries from his bed, one shouts from the living room. Mom stands with her hands in the dish water looking at the dirty window in front of her. She stares at the white index card taped to the glass with masking tape, the words acting simply as ink on paper as she mechanically moves the dish rag over the pot in the sink. She breathes in and reads the words:

“Whoever drinks of this water will thirst again, but whoever drinks of the water that I shall give him will never thirst. But the water I give him will become a fountain of water springing to everlasting life.”

I wonder what Living Water tastes like. The verse plays again in her mind. What does it taste like? Can you drown in Living Water? No. You don’t drown. You breathe it. You fill your lungs with Living Water when you inhale and Life pours out when you exhale. Even in real life, Father? Even with dinner on the stove and dishes in the sink? Even with screaming kids and broken down mini vans? Can I just have a taste, Lord? Just a taste of Living Water?



The soap bubbles dance in the sink like tiny diamonds. She lifts them to her mouth and puffs. They sparkle off her finger tips and bounce into the window. She plunges her hands back into the sink and rests her hands on the bottom. Diamond bubbles effervesce against her wrists. The water feels warm at the bottom and cool at the top, soft as silk and baby skin. A fountain begins to stir somewhere between her ribs and her spine. It feels all together wonderful and terrible. Her heart throbs with pleasure and aches with pain. Tears stream down her face as each breath comes, deeper and easier than seem natural.




A taste, the fountain whispers. What does it taste like, child?



Real life begins to intrude in the form of hungry kids and beeping timers. She shakes her head and squints back at the green numbers. 5:23. Tears still wet on her face, she remembers that movie line, “You can’t handle the truth.”




Can I handle more than a taste? She gathers her son in her arms and kisses his head. She lifts him in one arm and picks up his little brother in the other. Lips brush against baby soft cheeks and the fountain bubbles.



I want more than a taste of this love of Yours.



By Andrea