God of the Thirsty


[please don’t forget ME]


Don’t forget that I was alone coming to get water.


No friends to chatter with. No family to help me.


Which was unheard of.


And there was a very good reason for that.


I was an outcast. A sex slave. A tortured soul. Used by others. Abused by them too.


I was alone.


[please don’t forget ME]


Don’t forget that I was the other, a half-breed, the worst of all the others.


No safety net of a pure heritage. No group to belong to.


Which sounds like no big deal.


But where I came from, it was everything.


Everything that would keep me fed. And loved. Secure. Comforted. Worthy.


I was the other.


[please don’t forget ME]


Don’t forget that I was thirsty, not just for water, but for the quenching of my soul.


Parched from the journey past. And desperate for an oasis for what lay ahead.


How could I not be?


Depleted just from trying to make it through a day (day-after-day-after-day). My body scorched by others’ lust. Longing for a simple drop of hope. My faith bone-dry. Dying slowly outside and in.


[please don’t forget ME]


He did not.

He saw that I was alone.


And met me. Right where I was.


Spoke with me. Asked me about myself. And listened to me.


And I was not alone anymore.


He saw that I was the other.


And He didn’t flinch. He looked me in the eye.

With respect. Unwavering humility. And simply included me.


And I was not the other anymore.


He saw that I was thirsty.


On the outside for sure. But on the inside most of all.

He didn’t hesitate. To lean in closely. And give me what I needed the most.


Himself.


And I was not thirsty anymore.


[please don’t forget ME]


[and Him]


[and us]


**the third Sunday of Lent reflects on the Woman from Samaria at the Well**

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