I took this picture early September in a rare moment of arrest.

(It was rare because I was in too much pain at the time to have an eye for beauty.)

I stopped midstep, pulled out my phone, and snapped the photo, hoping it could also capture the rare feeling of respite in my heart, something akin to hope.

I suppose I took it because, deep down, there was a seed of belief in me that God has the water needed to make life happen in places nobody else believes can grow.

Jesus probably wasn’t being glib when he said to the woman at the well, “If you knew the gift of God, you would have asked him, and he would have given you living water.”

He knew when he saw me stop to take that photo, as if lingering at a well, that there was a reservoir in the walls of my heart just waiting to be tapped and filled with his eternal spring.

It would have taken me a while to ask for that gift if he hadn’t poured it out in my lap.

The day I took this photo I was beginning to see how I had forsaken the fount of living water for a broken cistern that could hold no water (consequentially neither could I), and when I saw life growing out of concrete, all I wanted was the water he had that could make me thrive in a barren land.

He saw my potential for growth, and more–the reservoir in my wall, hidden, expansive, deep, and knew exactly how to knock a hole in it.

These days–most days–I am no longer laboring to dig cisterns because I have found the well within me.

When I found this photo today, it wasn’t the growth or the hole in the wall that I first noticed.

It was the spout’s reflection on the wet pavement.


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