Shall we gather at the river...

The water in the cisterns for the cows has begun to dry up. Yesterday Michael had to pump water from the creek to fill them up so the cows could have water to drink. Tonight we will open the gate to let the cows drink from the stream. For the past eight years we have kept the cows out of the stream to prevent pollution but our backs are to the wall. When your ox is in the ditch, you have to work on the Sabbath. And when your livestock is thirsty, you have to find water.
Our well is struggling. The water pressure is very low, too low to run the dishwasher. I fill the washing machine with clothes regardless of colors. We are restricting flushing the toilets and capturing as much grey water as possible for outdoor watering. I lie awake at night and worry about what we would do if our well fails completely.
The flowers in my yard are dying. The grass is dead and the trees we planted are showing signs of stress. My grandson Matthew wanted to see a black snake while he was at the farm but there are no snakes, turtles or frogs to be found. A dry wind blows and the cloudless sky mocks our fruitless searching for rain. The French Broad River, which runs close to our farm, is at its lowest point in over one hundred years.
And in an ironic twist, the city of Asheville has more water than they need because industrial demands have decreased as plants have shut down. We no longer have much of an industrial base (no jobs either for regular folks) and are a tourist/retirement center. Water surrounds us and yet we are dying of thirst. Beautiful, crisp, cool sunny days... awful, arid, dog days of summer...
My soul shrivels even as the grass withers in the drought. I find my mouth full of dust and my feet perpetually dirty from the pulverized ground. At night my face is covered with a thin film of dirt and I cry out, “How long, Oh Lord, must I wait for the refreshing rains to fall from the heavens? How long must I wait for the soft soothing rains of love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self control to water my soul again? I am as dry as the ground I live on and I pray to be led to the still waters that will restore my soul.”
At Clare’s baptism last night we stood on the banks of a creek where people have been baptized for one hundred years. As the clear cold rushing water flowed around Michael and Clare, I gave thanks for this ritual, this immersion in water. It is a grace filled connection to the Living Water that quenches our thirst. As Michael read the story of Jesus’ baptism, I gave thanks for all the wet places in my spiritual life, places where the rivers run full and fast. I watched Michael lower Clare under the water and bring her up, both of them wet and dripping, running over with the Water of Life. And I am grateful. My soul is restored and the still waters bubble up with the movement of the Holy Spirit. I can lay my burdens down and let them rest on the banks of a river that never runs dry.