The Well

Once upon a time, there was a small stone cottage at the edge of a forest.  A small family lived there, perfectly content as they had everything they needed. A stream ran nearby, filling their clearing with gentle music.  A well provided sweet fresh water for their every need while their garden plot proved fertile, growing enough to eat, preserve and sell. The family spent their days working hard and their evenings resting content in a good day's labour. Life wasn't easy, but it was good. They were content.

 One day, a traveller came to their door. As was their custom, the mother welcomed him in. She offered him a simple meal and something to drink. Being very proud of their sweet well water, she handed him a glass while praising its health benefits and delicious taste. Instead of receiving it well, her visitor reacted as if she had handed him a snake. He launched into a diatribe on how irresponsible drinking from a well was. He sniffed the water and gagged, as if she had handed him a glass of vomit. Gathering the rest of the family together, he marched them outside and proceeded to harangue the family until they too believed that the well was bad. Together, they proceeded to stop up the well so never again would anyone be subjected to such horrible water.

 Shortly after, the stranger moved on. His task was done. The family was in shock, dismayed that they had been so foolish as to believe that their well was good.  They shook their heads, cheeks bright with embarrassment as they remembered every time they had offered their water to strangers, neighbours and friends. How could they have been so stupid? Why didn't anyone tell them before? Had their village been laughing at them all these years?

 The family began hauling their water from the nearby stream. It was hard, heavy work. The water from the stream didn't taste as good and in certain seasons, needed to be boiled and strained before drinking. Gone were the days of hauling up a dipper from the well for a quick drink. Sometimes the stream's flow dried up and water had to be rationed.  The family that had always been so clean, now began to wear dirty clothes and stretch out washing days as to save on water. They drank more coffee and tea to hide the bitter taste of the water.  Those happy content days soon became just a hazy memory.

 Years passed. Years of hard, grinding toil. The boarded up well became a symbol of shame to the family. It stood as a monument to their bad judgement. How could they have recklessly endangered their friends and family? How could they have drank such filth and thought it good? Sometimes, when such feelings were strong, they added another layer to the boards covering the well.  It stood, a wooden structure in the middle of the clearing, in the midst of an increasingly run down homestead.

 One day another stranger came to visit. The family had little to share now, but they humbly offered him some tea or coffee. He asked for a glass of cold water. The mother, now old and stooped, explained that they only had boiled water and that it was bitter.  He nodded, puzzled. "But I heard you had a well, of sweet sweet water. That's why I sought out your farm. Years ago my friend passed this way and you offered him some. He said in all his years, he's never had sweeter".

 "You must be mistaken" said the father. "Yes, we had a well, but it wasn't sweet. It was dangerous and dirty. We boarded it up long ago to keep everyone safe".

 "No, I'm sure it was here" said the traveller. He walked out and to everyone's amazement, he began to tear down the structure. It was hard, hot labour. At first, the family watched in shock. But soon, one of the boys began to help. He had fond memories of that well and had never really believed the stranger's words of disgust. Eventually, the walls were torn down and the well uncovered. The boy ran to fetch a bucket. In all the years of disuse, the well had not dried up. It hadn't soured or gone bad. As they pulled up the pail, the whole family smelt sweet clear water for the first time in years. How had they gone without it? Why had they allowed someone else to disparage their well and change their opinions? The family shook their heads, wondering how on earth they allowed a stranger to influence them so strongly. They drank deeply, rejoicing in the clear sweet goodness.

 This is me. I have allowed others to influence my opinion of myself. My good gifts have been called bad, so I stopped using them. I locked them away, ashamed of my bad judgement. How dare I offer up something so flawed? Was everyone laughing at me?  Now I come to realize that those words weren't true. I do have things to offer. I am seeking to bring those gifts back out into the open. It's a hard slow process, to tear down the lies that have defined my life for years.