I thought of you today when I got back from my walk
cranky from too much sun and dying for a drink of water.
You wanted water too when you sat at Jacob’s well.
Then she came along with her jar, and gave you lip
about not having a bucket. The two of you
talked theology for a while, trying to pinpoint the difference
between well water and metaphysical water,
and then you got down to that business about her life,
which didn’t change the conversation all that much,
because life and water are twins.
Then your flustered followers arrived and raised their eyebrows.
She put her jar down, which is a good metaphor
for surrender, or maybe for change, and went flying off
to tell everybody you were the messiah
because you knew everything about her and still thought
she was worth talking to. Then villagers came to see you
for themselves, begging you to stay with them, like those two
on the way to Emmaus would do, when evening fell
on the eighth day. And I realized, as I was standing
at my kitchen sink holding a glass under cold running water
and thinking about you, that in all the talk and commotion,
nowhere does it say if you ever got the drink you came for.
So I was wondering if you did, and I don’t think so.
Which means you are still thirsty.
Which means if I go to the well today, I will find you.
Which means if I bring my bucket to wherever you are
needing help in the heat of the day,
you could drink.