Wheat harvest meant working from sunrise until well after sundown. The summer heat felt oppressive even as I sat in the shade for a quick break.
I watched the steady rhythm of the windmill. Up and down. Up and down. Pulling up fresh water from deep down. Regardless of the relentless heat it pumped fresh water.
Grabbing some jugs, I filled them full, slung them in the back of the truck, and drove out to meet the harvest crew.
I pulled onto a dirt track cut into the side of wheat field. The dust rose behind me as I came up alongside the equipment. I heaved the jugs out of the back and watched as the crew enjoyed the cool water.
After dinner, as Grandpa sat resting outside, I asked if the well would go dry since it was so hot. He had me follow him to the truck. We drove a few miles and then turned up a dirt road.
After a dusty stretch we reached a creek. I slid out and walked over. Bending down I felt its coolness. “This water feeds the wells around here.” Grandpa explained. “We dug down deep and it’s never run dry.”
Grandpa’s well came to mind because lately I’m feeling kind of weary—like I’m pumping hard and coming up dry.
Maybe it’s the long winter. Maybe it’s the chilly divisiveness in our nation. Probably both.
Grandpa had a quiet faith, but it went deep, like his well. And it never ran dry either. If he were here he’d probably tell me it’s time to dig deeper—that’s where the refreshment will be found.