Water: John 4

Wonderfully Unwelcome

The man finishes breakfast and leaves quickly with his materials for the day’s work.

She does not rest after his departure. She busies herself with household matters, straining the boundaries of efficiency and cleanliness. No home in the village comes close. But without children, there is never enough to stay busy. And there is no way to avoid the outside world forever.

The house warms from the heat of the day—the sun now high in the sky. She stares at her water jar, as if it were the source of her grief and misery. As if everything had not been her own doing. A sudden shiver wracks her body, despite the heat. She shoulders the now empty jar. No time for thought.

The sun is hot indeed. She shades her face by placing the jar atop her head. Without looking to the left or the right she strides down the street. She tries to ignore the whispering and snickering from neighbors’ windows. And in a way she does. So common the sounds have become, her mind treats them as rushing wind or bubbling water.

Finally she clears the edge of the village, becoming a spectacle for only the sparse life of the wilderness. She bears the weight of the jar and the heat of the day with determined strength. She is more than glad to accept the heat in order to draw water without drawing condescending stares as well.

It has been months since last receiving a slap from the bolder of the old women. Since then she has put greater effort into avoiding all contact. Let them judge from within their own homes. Suddenly, she realizes her efforts on this day will be thwarted.

Drawing near the well of Jacob, she sees a strange man. He is alone, his back propped against a stone. Her withered spirit creaks from within her. Why of all times and places must this man choose here and now? He is unwelcome.

Then the unexpected happens. Some forgotten corner of her heart awakens, shaking off the dust of apathy. A moment passes before she is able to identify the sensation as curiosity. But no sooner than she recognizes it, fear washes it away.

She alters her path to the well and averts her eyes, avoiding the man as much as possible. Anxiety embraces her. Nothing good can come of this. Quickly she pulls the bucket to the surface, her mind working faster than her arms. Why is he here, and alone? Why is this happening? Have I not suffered enough?

The stranger speaks, shattering the fragile bubble separating them. “Give me a drink.” His accent is that of a Jew, his voice demanding and yet without threat.

She glances over at him. Certainly he is a Jew. His clothing confirms it. She does not respond. How could she? This man is teasing me. This man means me harm.

The Jews detest the Samaritans, and the Samaritans hold no love for the Jews. Fear is the only reasonable response. A strange Jewish man, alone in the wilderness—how could she possibly trust his request?

Frozen in place, she assesses him through the corner of her eye. A warm wind buffets him, causing him to shield his eyes from blowing sand. He makes no effort to look at her, nor does he follow up his request. Perhaps he is thirsty. Maybe her paranoia has lead her to overreact.

In her confusion she finishes hoisting the bucket to the top. The creaking of the spindle and sloshing of the bucket are welcome interruptions of the silence. She pauses, the bucket within reach.

This man has interrupted her silent loneliness. His very presence has contributed to her burden. He is a Jew, and yet he makes requests of her? Within a single beat of her heart, her fear morphs to anger. Beneath it all, her infant curiosity lingers. In a fit of courage, she responds to the man. “How is it that you, a Jew, ask a drink of me, a woman of Samaria?”