We probably sounded like a group of excited school children as we trooped down the hill to the excavation site. School kids or a flock of clamoring magpies. Either way, there was no silence in our approach. Questions fired back and forth. And slowly we pieced the few facts we knew together.

Shortly after my grandparents moved onto their farm in Cooks Creek (approx 1963), my 11 year old uncle commented that a cow had stepped into a sinkhole in the pasture. Further investigation discovered a hand dug well, so a neighbor brought a tractor and pulled a huge piece of concrete into position over the hole. The site was covered with dirt and soon became a fertile truck patch for the Rhodes family.

Somehow my cousin Ellis (who rents the farm) learned about the well and took the initiative to uncover it. Grandmother, with her keen 90 year old mind, helped him to find it on the first attempt.

And there it was.

20 feet to the water’s surface , and probably 20 feet of water to the floor. Huge limestone rocks lining the complete hole.

We cautiously peered over the edge until our faces reflected in the pool of water below. There was no end to the words of cation. Everyone was convinced that someone or at least a dog was going to slip and disappear into a watery grave. The constant shower of dirt being kicked over the edge did nothing to ease the fears.

Then we started the fun of surmising. Who was responsible for digging this well in the rocky terrain? How had the rocks been lain in this deep, massive hole especially after the hole started filling with water? Was it the well or the huge hill that was responsible for saving the bank barn during the Valley’s burning of the Civil War? Why did they quit using this well? Is it possible that it’s only full of water thanks to last years excessive rain?

Again we all stared into the reflections in the bottom of the well, as if expecting answers. . But all was silent.

I’m reminded of another battery of questions that took place around a well. This time the questions weren’t centered around the one responsible for digging the well ( our father Jacob gave us this well, and drank this water with his family, and all of his flocks and herds)

Instead the conversation was about the source of water.

Jesus met a lady at the well and after asking for a drink, told her about His gift- a spring of water overflowing that leads to eternal life. Could she believe that He was who he said He was?

The lady hurried away and returns bringing her people and after Jesus spends 2 days with them, they say “NOW we believe, not just because of your story, but we’ve heard him ourselves. This is indeed Christ, the Savior of the World!”

I love the response of the crowd. This suddenly went from being her story, to being personal for each one who met Jesus that day.

How personal is my encounter with Jesus? Do I take other peoples word for what is truth? Or do I pursue it for myself?

I hope the water in my well holds a clear reflection of my Savior- the one who gave His life for me.

Blessings,

Kendra

Bonus Pic:

Spring is the most optimistic time of year ☺️ super thankful for every sunny day