variant of the familiar…
I really don’t think she was the woman AT the well
so much as she was the woman IN the well, even
the woman DOWN the well if you peer intensely
into the story because let’s face it, she’d had five
husbands (past tense) and was shacking up with
number six (present tense), a coupling that given
standing track records wouldn’t hold (future tense),
so I mean c’mon, this woman needed someone to
draw her UP and OUT, maybe even OVER the edge
INTO the light coughing and sputtering and muddled,
but safe. So along comes a mysterious thirtysomething
well versed in buckets – there’s always a hole, dear liza
– plus carrying a belief in the kindness of strangers –
yes, there is such a thing as a free drink – and he’s
weary but not too tired for a little verbal angling on
matters ranging from Water to Worship to Wedded
unbliss, so they drift a few moments and then BAM!
he reels her, confession and everything, onto the banks
of grace where she promptly spilled her plans and took
off singing some semblance of helpmeIthinkI’mfalling,
rustling up everyone she even remotely knew, telling
them WHERE she’d been and WHO she met and
WHAT he told her and WHY she wasn’t so thirsty
anymore, making sure to boldly press each person
for a decision: now WHEN can you come and see
this man who told me, well, buckets?
I like to think of myself as a lover of words, regardless of the language. And I love these ones. The woman´s story lives in me. How broken do we have to be before the Lord turns from us? The woman teaches us that we can never be that broken. Halleluiah.
Thank you, Kari…
Each one of these posts brushes up against the poet in me and reminds her that it’s not about the elegant brushstrokes of words that sound achingly well-crafted and mystical but are really life’s length from the heart. No, your words remind her that it’s about running to the paper as fast as she can,so that the words of overwhelm don’t all spill out before they are written. But the ones that do spill out and don’t make it to the paper — how they catch the eye and heart of those who can’t even name the ache. Thank you, John . . .
Sallie, you are welcome…yes, there is a poet in you, I believe that.
John, lest you mis-read, I’ll assure you I’ve had only one husband and have shacked with no other (and have no plans to do such). But we’ve talked about exile; suffice it to say there with all of the money of Midas it would be impossible to produce a coincidence as unbelievable as these specific words delivered to my email inbox (“at such a time as this”) for me personally. Therefore, I must conclude, as we both already knew, coincidences are indeed myth, the Living Word speaks, the buckets with their water and women (men too) continue to be drawn from the well and are changed as a result. God speaking through the specific words you chose for your poem did as much for me this morning. I wonder how many more times this message of grace will hit me bullseye in my emotional center as if I’m hearing it for the first time.
Leah, I’m thankful when my words draft off the grace that keeps this world…good to hear from you.
Should I just go ahead and add your RSS feed to my side bar? It kills me to think that someone wouldn’t know about your way of putting it.
Haven’t I been the lady in the well.
Amber, yes you really should add my RSS feed, ‘twould be prudent…and I’ve been the man in the well too.
Can I just say how much I LOVE THIS? Best retelling of that story ever. Thank you.
Thank you, Diana, for taking a moment to write…
I’m with Diana. Love this!
Hi, Danica…thank you for your comment.