Water That Lasts (Part 2)
I could see each puff of my own breath push, staccato-like, out into the frigid air as I ran towards red and white flashing lights blurred in the distance, my eyes blinking and burning against the bitter breeze. Her call had come just moments after she’d left for work. The panic in her voice had reached right through the phone and taken hold of this mom’s heart.
“I’m coming!” I finally exhaled, ending the call as I heard her talking to responders.
“Oh, Lord. Please, please, please, please!” It was all I could think to say as I rushed to the other room and rummaged through drawers to grab whatever clothing would cover bare arms and legs. I stuffed my toes into sneakers, pulling heels of each shoe on as I hopped to the car. I drove to where traffic had begun to pile up, and pulled onto a neighborhood street to park. Fingers and feet began going numb as I ran, then walked, then ran again. I’d not thought to grab a coat or gloves. My mind felt numb too. As I neared the scene, tears came. “My daughter,” I pointed to the car, locking eyes with the officer, covering my mouth to hold back a full-on cry. He motioned me across the wide intersection to where her car rested in oncoming lanes of the highway. Thank You Lord—she wasn’t hit from this side, too.
It taxed me—the trek to the scene, the wait in the ER, the having to watch her navigate yet another traumatic event. X-rays showed nothing broken—I was so grateful for that. But I couldn’t make my mind unsee what I’d seen. When my head hit the pillow, I couldn’t stop the replays and what-could-have-happeneds from running through my brain. I was drained, yet sleep refused to come.
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In early verses of John chapter 4, we find Jesus and His disciples on the move.
“He left Judea and went again to Galilee. He had to travel through Samaria; so he came to a town of Samaria called Sychar near the property that Jacob had given his son Joseph (John 4:3-5 HCSB).
The journey from Judea to Sychar was a distance of about 30 miles. We might picture these men traveling by foot, kicking up dust with each step along rough terrain amidst arid conditions.
Verse 6 is where I’d like to pause.
“Jacob’s well was there, and Jesus, worn out from his journey, sat down at the well. It was about noon” (John 4:6 HCSB).
I’ve never walked 30 miles. Maybe you haven’t either. But I wonder if you, like I, have ever found yourself in that place of exhaustion. Bone tired and barely able to put one heavy foot in front of the other to get through a day. Or mentally sapped from traversing a dark and lonely season. Or run down from running to the scene of one in need of help. Perhaps you’re navigating a life event that’s left you fumbling through an emotional fog, stumbling over debris as you plod through the wreckage. Maybe worry, or grief, or depression has you dragging—“tired on the inside,” as I heard it once described. Or maybe in the deepest sense, you’re spiritually spent—depleted from fighting unseen battles—feeling no strength to deflect flaming arrows ever oncoming.
Oh the comfort it is in knowing that Jesus knew exhaustion too.
Isn’t it amazing that the God of the universe is not distant? That our Savior is One who is near, who knew what it was to be worn out? It’s something special that this Jesus—this God with us, this fully-God-fully-man Man—submitted Himself to life’s limitations on this hopelessly broken planet.
And much like Jesus met her—a Samaritan woman, exhausted from trekking through her days—He meets us too. He steps into our stories, saying to us,
“Come to me, all of you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest” (Matthew 11:28, HCSB).
Oh what Love.
What He offered her at the well that day, He offers to you and to me. He offers the ultimate gift—the gift of Himself. Our situation may not change, but there’s strength in knowing He’s with us in it. There’s the ability to dip our souls down into Living Water, drawing endurance to keep going as we travel toward Home.
