Based on John 4: The Woman at the Well
My name is Warwoman Wells. I’ve had a hard life. I’m the only daughter of a father who wanted, yet never got, a son. He never even tried to love me. Instead he drank every day, beat my mom every night, and pretended that I didn’t even exist. I’m glad he died young, the victim of an over-liquored liver. My momma tried to protect me; she tried to soothe my tears by stroking my hair and wiping my face but the hurt was too deep for her to reach; and she was wounded too. I can still hear her muffled sobs as she cried herself to sleep most every night. I hated that man for what he did to my mom and me. Now, I’m a waitress. I’ve had many lovers. I’ve been working at this same restaurant for the last fifteen years. Same customers. Same orders. Same jokes. Same complaints. Same pay. Every day. Fifteen years. In here, nothing ever changes. But a few weeks ago, in walked a man I’d never seen him before. He seemed pleasant—which is unusual in this place. Most guys that come in here are hardened, cold, and rude. This man didn’t quite fit. It was like he was in the wrong part of town at the wrong time of day—sorta like he was lost—but he didn’t ask for directions. He just sat down, smiled and asked for a glass of water. “Anything else I can get for you?” I said with a hint of cynicism. “Not right now”, he smiled kindly. “Be right back,” I said as I turned toward the kitchen. “Great. Water—I got a cheap one; a no tipper!” I said out loud to myself. I walked back to his table with attitude and set the water down, a little bit sloshed over the edge and puddled up around the glass. He pulled a few napkins from the dispenser and mopped up my mess; and then he turned up the glass of water and drained it while I was standing there. He sighed deeply and contently with his eyes closed as if he were savoring every molecule of designer water. Then he opened up his eyes, tilted his head and smiled at me as he held out the glass for a refill. “Anything else?” I asked, already knowing the answer. “Not right now,” he politely replied. “Maybe in a minute.” I got to tell you, I took my time coming back with his refill. When I had waited about as long as I could, I made my way back to his table. I hadn’t even bothered with refreshing his ice. I set the glass down with attitude this time too. A little bit more sloshed over the edge and even splattered on his shirt a bit. He calmly reached across the table and pulled another handful of napkins to mop up the spill. He didn’t even seem frustrated. (I was, but he wasn’t.) He took a single swallow from the glass and gently set it on the napkins that were soaking up my mess. “Thank you so much for the water—it was exactly what my body needed. I’ve been walking a long while and as you can tell, I was thirsty beyond belief.” “Glad I could be of service to you,” I said flatly. “Anything from the menu,” I demanded. He held up the glass and looked through the sweating condensation on outside. “Yep. This water sure satisfied my thirst now, but do you want to know something? I’m going to be thirsty again.” “Look,” I said, “you can’t just come in here and drink water all day. I’ll bring you one more glass but then if you aren’t going to get something to eat, you’re going to have to leave.” It was like he was ignoring me—but still talking to me. “Yep—this is good water but it doesn’t satisfy your true thirst. Now if you were to drink of the water that I have, now that permanently quenches your thirst.” Is this man crazy?! What is his deal? All I could do was stare at him. “What in the world are you talking about? If you have that kind of water why did you come in here and bother me? Why are you even thirsty?” He kept smiling—not a crazy man smile, but a contagious smile. I felt my guard drop just a bit. He was waiting on me to say something. “OK, fine, I’ll bite. Let me drink some of that water so that I won’t ever be thirsty again.” He replied, “Go get your husband and then come back.” “I don’t have a husband,” I spewed, caught off guard by his sudden directness. “You are right when you say you have no husband. The fact is, you have had several husbands, and the man you live with now is not your husband.” Now I was mad even though he was right. How did this stranger know this about me? What was his angle? He wasn’t from around here. I knew everyone from here, and he wasn’t from here. Was he trying to get me fired? “Who are you; and what do you want from me?” I demanded. “I can see your pain. I can sense your anger and your desperation. You really are thirsty for something real—something that will last. Men have disappointed you and always will, but there is a hope beyond a man. Your way of life haunts you—you don’t like it and never have; you feel guilty, dirty, alone and trapped. But you aren’t. I know the way out. Do you want to know the way out?” “I do,” I sobbed. My anger had melted as his words offered hope. “Follow me.” “What? You want a burger and fries to go?” I blurted out. “Well, yeah!” he sang. “There’s more to talk about.”
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