A well that was once full

Bucket of a well

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


I am afraid that if I tell you that my well was once full you would not believe me – that is how far, unfortunately, I have walked without Jesus

It is not evident that my well was once full, that I have walked with him once before. The floor of my well has cracked deeply and the sand has become well baked by the sun. The walls are no longer alive but rather have the image of death, the image of desolation and forgotten-ness.

I see an image and that is an image of sadness and regret. I see where I have been and the realization of emptiness comes down upon my shoulders. I am at the bottom of my once full to overflowing well.

When I was full I gladly immersed myself and slowly emptied my precious water out into those around me. With each cup that was filled around me the more I struggled to stay afloat. Anxiety and betrayal filled my heart and again-  the more I emptied my well the faster my strength left me. I had finally reached the bottom and consciously made the decision to have power over my outpouring and inflowing – that was the worst decision I could make as it lead me to destruction and frustration.

The result lead me to being at the bottom of my empty well crying over how the wind moved the sand and how the sun shone on the dying walls. I had no realization of what was happening, I had not fathomed that my well was empty and that the sand and sunshine did not matter. What mattered was that my well was empty, but I did not realize this. So I went on walking in circles at the bottom of my well crying about the wind sunshine.

But here I sit – finally looking upward and I wonder how I ever allowed myself to get here, never the less to stay here. I’m crying out through heart-filled sobs for someone to come and save me, for someone to give me hope that this well will be full again.

Oh and faithfully you come, the one who is Faithful and True. You come down and with a whisper you say, “Rise Ash, you will find rest where you are. Breakthrough is on its way.” And I realize that sometimes I need signs and wonders like the Pharisees and other times I need your whisper, like Elijah, to believe.

Sometimes I  have to hit rock bottom, to be covered in dirt and cry out for my Saviour. I’ve got to be low to the ground to hear the sound of hope. This hope that rumbles from far away, a rumble that carries the truth in every vibration and breakthrough in every heartbeat. This hope will shake the dust from the walls of my well and bring forth new growth.

I have hope for I have evidence that this hope is Truth. Evidence from stories of old, the stories of every man and woman who lost hope but found it in Christ. So here I sit feeling an overflowing and outpouring of hope into my being, for you are Christ the hope of glory.

I deceived myself into thinking that this well was a prison, a prison of what I was before I ran away from you into religious thinking. A prison with well-aged walls that mocked me constantly, walls that reminded me of how good I was at doing wrong and how terrible my efforts were in doing good.

But these walls are made of vapour. Hope is alive today because you came out of the grave, so pour in me once again – full to overflowing.

 

 

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