When the Well Runs Dry

'We never know the worth of water till the well is dry.' - Thomas Fuller

Picture this: you've been working outside weeding the garden under the blazing sun. You're hot, you're sweaty and your mouth is dry as dust. You walk into your kitchen, wiping your dirty hands on a rag. I need a shower, you think, but first a long drink of fresh, cold water. You can just imagine it. You can't wait to fill a glass, tilt your head back and drink it gulp after gulp.

You turn on the faucet. A gush of water spurts out, but then the flow dies to a trickle, then a drip, then nothing.

No more water.

How we take it for granted, this precious thing, this treasure that gives us health and life. We turn the faucet and let it pour out endlessly without a thought - until it's gone.

It's been a long, dry summer. The few rain showers we've had were brief, and the earth is parched and dry. Day after day the sun beats down with no relief. The farmers run their irrigation all day long, struggling to keep their crops alive. Across the road, the river is low and sluggish, and the wetland is shrinking. The leaves on the trees are wilting.

And now our well has gone dry.

We've been without water in our house for days. It's an old well that's faithfully served us for 30 years, but no longer. Is it the drought? The farm next door's new drainage system? Their endless irrigating? We don't know, and calls to the farm company and the DNR go unanswered.

Suddenly all those little, unnoticed moments when you need water stop you in your tracks. Drinking and cooking and washing and the bathroom and brushing your teeth and wiping the counters and making coffee and watering your plants and on and on and on. We fill a few precious jugs in town and bring them home to parcel out bit by bit. In the dish drainer are two plates, two cups, one pan and a few sad forks and knives. Laundry is a trip to town. Friends with showers receive plaintive calls. The house is sliding into dusty neglect. The garden is limp and wilting.

As I lay in bed worrying that first night, I suddenly found myself thinking of a picture I saw once of a woman carrying a jug on her head. She had a baby strapped to her back and a child by her side. She was walking to get water, like she did every day.

She seems to be in my thoughts a lot these days. When I fill those jugs in the grocery store aisle and hoist them into my car, I think of her. When I pour out a little to make my coffee, I think of her. Dribbling a little precious water on a cloth to wipe the counter, I think of her and the millions like her who have to struggle to get something I use, even waste, without a second thought.

As the days went by without water in our house, we really had to do something. We looked sadly at our finances, took a deep breath and started calling drilling companies. Soon a giant machine was parked in our yard, ready for the job.

I dreamed of that woman last night. We were walking together, me with a gallon bottle in each hand, she with the jug on her head. My side of the road was paved, level, easy; hers was rocky and uneven. Now and then she stumbled, and the child by her side, I saw, was limping. We walked in silence, glancing from time to time at each other. Maybe there was nothing to be said. And after a time, our roads parted, and we each walked on.

And now as I write this our house is shaking with the pounding of machinery outside, digging us a new well.

Somewhere, that woman is still walking.

Afterword:

Our new well is finished, and I find that I've been given not just precious water, but gratitude as well. Every time I turn on the water, I breathe a prayer of thanks. And I want to do something, if I can, to help people like that woman on the road.

There are so many reputable charities who work with local citizens to help them dig wells so they can have access to safe water. I think we'll choose one and offer a water gift in gratitude.

If you're interested, here's a good article about some excellent charities who are bringing clean and safe water to millions of people: The Top Ten