Thirsting, even to the point of death, for my well has run dry. There is a well, but the journey is far, down a rocky path where enemies hide in the cliffs waiting to kill. To live, the only option is to risk destroying my flesh to gather the life-giving water, so I go. Senseless has become my feet. The sweat drips from my brow dimming my sight, and all feeling has fled my hands from clenching the pitcher. With a weakened spirit, left to die in a wasteland, even so; I can’t cease taking step after step, for the thirst for a cool drink of water will not allow for abandoning my quest. As the sun finished rising and falling on the day, I came to the place at the well. Exhausted from the journey, falling to my knees to remove the stone cap and lower the bucket into the water below. My body trembling as I lifted the load from the mouth of the earth and using the last strength I possessed lifting the bucket to fill the pitcher. Then, in a fainting moment, my strength vanished, I lost grip on the bucket. Watching as it falls, striking the pitcher, shattering it to pieces scattered over the rocks. My soul cried out in anguish, for my heart fears the journey has come to nothing.  Failing in spirit in this moment of despair, loneliness and death are my only companions. I drink from the bucket to refresh my soul, then lay my head on a stone to breathe what will be my last. Warmth covers my face; opening my eyes and seeing the new day’s sun. The bright light reveals a refuge, a shelter in this desolate land. A place to call home, at this well of life-giving water. I will stay at this place for all the days of my life.