The Water Bearer

“No,” He pushes my hand away, weakly but with certainty. “I don’t need it. I’m fine.”

Even as he speaks, his lips are cracking. His skin looks dusty, and his hair is falling out in chunks. “Goway,” he slurs. As he stumbles to get up, my eyes gloss over. Three tears fall to earth and are gobbled up by the thirsty ground. Would that my friend do the same…

I am the Water Bearer, even when the thirsty do not choose to drink. I cannot force them, like that old proverb about horses says. But in this case, I cannot lead them anywhere; I come to them. My gift is free and my gift is for all. But most people don’t realize that their lips are bleeding, that their eyes are dilated, their skin hardening. Everything around them is withering and dying; to them everything’s normal. They do not realize they need water to live.

“Friend, take this cup. It will help, I promise.” I extend my hand once again.

“I said NO!” He struggles to shift from his knee to standing, his supporting leg swaying like a palm on the beach. “I’m not thirsty!” he croaks. “I just need to stand up…”

With each cup I offer comes the promise of restoration, rejuvination, replenishment. The water refreshes not only the tongue but slides its way between the cells of the body, plumping and repairing—my water fills the empty spaces.

He grabs for that tree, for those rocks, something solid to pull himself up with, but they are useless mirages. He looks around, but we are alone in this wasteland, save another man, tiny on the horizon. He slumps back to the ground, aware for the first time that standing is hard without help. “Maybe just a little,” he mumbles. I hold out the cup again. He draws it to his face, eyes trained on the ground the entire time. But instead of drinking it, he lifts the cup high and pours my water over his head. Little rivers stream down his face, and he closes his eyes. His parched lips part in a crack of a smile. But even as I watch, the water disappears, evaporating into the arid desert air. His smile fades as the cool is replaced by the same old dryness. Except this time, because he knows water now, he can feel it. He thrusts the empty glass at me, waggling it around. “More!” he cries, as the heat returns. He still avoids my gaze.

My cup is not to be taken lightly. My cup is not to be squandered. It revives so long as it is truly tasted. Occasional splashes do nothing but make misery more apparent. My water refills, but you must offer your body, your vessel, to be refilled. It is a commitment.

“Friend, so long as you choose to waste my water, you will never be satisfied for long. The water must become a part of you. Please drink.” I offer him the glass, refilled to the brim, but he just sits there. I know what he’s thinking—who are you to tell me what to do? I just needed a little refreshing. One more glass to splash on my face and I’ll be fine. But I know he’s also thinking about how fleeting the pleasure was, and how, even after that, he can’t stand up. He reaches out and accepts my offer. As the cup trembles toward his lips, light sparkles off the water. The reflection dances on his face and I smile.

I refill his cup as quickly as he drains it. Over and over, in great gulps he drinks, like a man falling in love for the first time. He doesn’t waste a drop.

He looks up at me with new eyes, glistening now instead of dull. I can see my reflection in them as I extend my hand. “Come.” I point into the distance. “I think our friend over there is thirsty…”