All Who Are Thirsty.

Water, in Africa, is life.

The well is always crowded, the women go to the pump multiple times a day to carry hundreds of pounds of water back to their home to support their families. Water. Is. Life.
I found myself once, the other day, thinking it redundant to go to the well; it’s always the same thing.
1.       Need water.
2.       Struggle to find an empty canister.
3.       Struggle even harder to find a lid.
4.       Walk a half a mile across the scorching sand that literally burns your feet to the point of blistering.
5.       Say hi to the witch doctor and her children.
6.       Say ‘mudibwangi!” to every single person and child you see, and hug the old lady.
7.       Get to the well, sit on your canister til your turn, play with the children and help the women pump the water.
8.       Pump your own water.
9.       Carry 44 pounds of water uphill back to the property as it leaks all over you.
10.   Rinse, dry, repeat two more times.

 I started to mentally kick myself for ever thinking such thoughts three seconds later. One specific story had come to mind; when, in John 4, Jesus talks to the Samaritan woman at the well.

Jesus was someone who characteristically, in accordance with culture, never should have been at that well. Not only was he a man, but a Jew at that. But that didn’t matter to Him, because the only thing that matters to Him is His children. If He hadn’t sat down, tired, at that exact place, that woman and the one’s she knew never would have received the living water that He offers. He chose to ignore His tiredness, aloneness, and the beating, brutal sun (something SO HARD to do) to publically talk to a woman deemed ‘lesser’, an action by which love, equality and lack of judgment were shown. She was hard, and sarcastic, but Jesus saw right through her smart remarks a chose to still talk to her, in a time it would have been so easy to tap out of the situation. And through that, a ten minute conversation was enough to save her life.

I am, in context to this land, someone who should not be at the well. I am a white, American girl with running water in my house in the States. But that shouldn’t matter to me, because the only thing that should matter to me is God’s children. If I don’t sit down, even when I’m tired, in that exact place, even though I don’t know the language- the woman and children may never get to experience the love of Christ I come bearing in my open palms. If I don’t chose to ignore my tiredness, my daydreams, my blistered feet and peeling sunburn to publically make an effort to talk to the woman and humble myself to pump their water, and through that action show love and equality and the light of Christ Jesus, my purpose on this earth is null. If I don’t chose to ignore their smart remarks and comments about my clothing and lack of Chichewa and chose to keep trying to talk and play and smile, I’m totally missing the point of being here.

To give these people Jesus Christ, a love that knows no bounds, and the gift of time. To hear their stories, hold their hands, invest in their lives. To pray for the ground, dance with the church, play clapping games with the children. To pump enough water to overflow this land with the Father’s love.

Maybe, if I pump hard and long enough, living water will start coming out of the well.