Sunday, March 23, 2014

At the well

God, it's hot.
But I walk
with my jug
to the well
at midday,
in my shame.
A Jew, a man
sits there.
In this heat?
Is he crazy?!
"Give me a drink,"
he says.
"Are you blind?"
I say.
"I'm a Samaritan."
(And a woman.)
He shrugs, like it
doesn't matter.
"You could ask me
for living water,"
he says.
"What? You have
no bucket,"
I remind him.
"My water
is eternal life."
he says.
"Go, bring your husband."
My shame droops.
"I have none,"
I say.
"You've had five,
and you've not
married this last one."
A prophet,
I finally understand,
but my sins
don't matter
in his eyes.
"The Messiah is coming,"
I tell him.
"I am he."
We sit
in the heat.
As we talk,
I am turned
inside out.
My shame,
my fear,
my shadows
in the light
of his midday
don't matter.
I am loved.
I am forgiven.
I am called.
I am chosen.
Forgetting my jug,
I run to tell
God, it's good.

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