Joyless or Joyful

Well water coming from a hose pipe was a simple joy. I cherished it as a child who grew up being thrown outside from daylight to dark. I was an only child, but I had an overabundance of cousins who were more like brothers and sisters. We loved each other fiercely—and we fought like cats and dogs.

There was absolutely nothing to do for entertainment, so we created our own. I don’t remember a time when I didn’t have a bicycle; it was a necessity. On hot summer days, we were told, “Stay in or out!” The hose pipe, with its high-quality H₂O, kept us cool. It watered the gardens and created mud for mud pies.

Saturdays were spent working in my Nanny’s garden. We earned twenty-five cents for capturing the infamous white moths and a penny for beetles. With around six gardens, we always had bubble gum and candy money. We broke beans, slapped those greens, and shucked corn. Our reward was getting to eat what we harvested.

The soil on that hillside was rich, fertilized with turkey poop from my uncle’s turkey farm. With so much acreage, water was necessary to keep things from withering in the extreme heat. Clothes were hung on the line, smelling of fresh sunshine and—yes—turkey poop from the air. They were stiff as a board.

One particular Saturday morning, my cousin and I went outside. She was on her fancy Stardust bicycle. I was in my pink housecoat and pajamas. We were a good distance from the house when we noticed a pack of dogs come out of the woods across the road. She said, “When I tell you to run, you RUN.” I had no idea what was coming next—but looking back, I realize she absolutely did.

Let me tell you now, bedroom shoes have no grip whatsoever. A long housecoat does nothing for aerodynamics. I took off running toward the house, unaware that I had just been selected as the sacrificial lamb for a slobber-slinging pack of dogs. They were vicious.

Panic and hysteria set in quickly. I looked back and there she was—still sitting on her Stardust bicycle—laughing hysterically. I honestly thought I saw Jesus and the previous six years of my life flash before my eyes. I picked up serious speed, and those bedroom shoes went into turbo mode. I finally made it to the door screaming and slinging snot.

My Nanny stood in her shadow-line nightgown cooking breakfast. My uncle was in his underwear in the kitchen. I managed to scream one word: “DOGS!” My uncle grabbed a string mop—yes, a mop—and ran outside. I had no idea what he planned to do with it, and at that moment, I didn’t care.

The dogs were circling like buzzards waiting on their next meal. The mop was useless—imagine that. Then he saw the hose pipe lying on the ground. He grabbed it and sprayed wildly at the dogs. They finally retreated and ran off.

Once the coast was clear, my cousin came around the driveway with the smuggest look on her face and asked if I was okay—like she truly cared that I’d nearly been picked clean by savage beasts. I never trusted her again.

Physical water is temporary. It satisfies a thirst, waters gardens, and—occasionally—repels dogs.

The Bible teaches that Jesus is the Living Water. According to John 4:13–14, when we trust Him, we will never thirst again. In the chaos of life, trusting Him—and not someone sitting smugly on a Stardust bicycle—will save us from the slobber-slinging pack of dogs we face every day.