Susan LaffertyA cup of water. In debilitating heat, it can mean survival.
A large clay pot sat beside our gate. Full of water. With cup attached. Ready to meet the need of any passerby.
Unrelenting sun and desert wind meant dehydration was never far away.
The clay kept the water cool. Even on hot days.
It’s one of those days. Weeks. Seasons. In various places and spaces of our life. And I struggle with restlessness. Discontentment. Distraction.
Hungry for something I can’t quite put my finger on.
In the middle of such a season, I read John 4. During morning time in His Word. And pause on the verses that come after the woman at the well heads back to her village.
The conversation between Jesus and His disciples.
Our first home in Bandung, Indonesia, was on a street called Rancaherang. When I told people where we lived, they would nod knowingly and say, “Ah, mata air dari batu”—the source of water that comes from the rock.
It was a known source of pure water that came from somewhere deep within the earth. Thirst-quenching, garden-drenching water. Always flowing, always abundant.
And there was no water shortage in that whole neighborhood. In fact, it started as a stream in our yard, flowed through a pond on the side of our house and into a stream that ran down to the next house. And on to the next house after that, and so on.
Each yard had a pond of fish and ever-flowing water.