Parched. Dry. Dehydrated. The soil beneath her is cracked, barren, and dead. The tiny fractures in the ground divide the once fertile land into hundreds of little chunks, each longing for moisture. She feels as if she is choking as she tries to swallow, her tongue stuck to the back of her throat, sticky and dry. The once wet pallet is now longing for water...yearning for water...thirsting for water... needing water more than she has ever needed something before. She tries to get up, but stumbles, too weak from dehydration. One knee at a time, she crawls slowly... searching... longing.
In the distance she hears a faint trickle. With barely any strength left, she lifts her head to see if what she hears is true, or merely an illusion. There, in front of her was a stream among the barren land. As she nears, she beomes thirstier and thirstier, no longer just the thirst of her body, but thristy deep within her soul, for this the living water. When close, she cups her hands and dips them into the water... cold, wet, and refreshing. The water ran down her throat, soaking her once parched tongue. She drank, and the water never ran out. She washed, and her soul was cleansed. She drew near, and she was satisfied... never to be thirsty again.
As the deer pants for streams of water, so my soul pants for you, O God. My soul thirsts for God, for the living God. When can I go and meet with God?
1 week ago