Digging my own well


I don’t know why I keep running back to it.  You would think that I would have learned by now.

When my emotions overwhelm me I run back to the edge of my very own well.  The one I’ve gone to for years. It is overgrown with grass and weeds and the stones are crumbling.  I look down into its darkness and feel the pull.

A voice, still and gentle warns me not to jump.  My feelings yearn for the comfort offered in the familiar darkness. The depths call out to me promising relief.

I move my feet closer, teetering on the edge.  Pieces of broken stone scatter over the side and plunge down into my well.

I hear the echoes as they fall.  There is no splash.  My well is empty, dry, water-less.  My thoughts turn back from the darkness below me.  I hear the small voice beckoning me.

I remember now the times I’ve found myself at the bottom of my own well.  Bruised, bleeding and trapped surrounded by the darkness that promised relief.

I am the woman at the well.  Looking for relief in the refrigerator, on-line or at the movies.  Pulling the covers over my head to escape.  I end up more empty and alone and depressed.  And so thirsty.

I remember who rescued me and healed me and loved me.  The sunday school song bubbles up in my heart, “Deep and wide, deep and wide. There’s a fountain flowing deep and wide.”

He has made provision for me.  He is the living water.  He leads me beside quiet waters. He restores my soul.  His well is not dry.  His promises are trustworthy.  I turn away from my well and fall to my knees.

His well is as close as a whisper. Jesus. I pour out my soul to the One who loves me. I take a drink of His living water.

visiting with Michelle, Laura, and outside the city gates


2 thoughts on “Digging my own well

  1. bbreit

    Dear Michelle, thank you for your comments from so many years ago. I just realized that there were comments on here. Blessings to you!!


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