The Woman at the Well

John 4:4–26

For years, my password at work

was WellWoman. I clicked the keys

swiftly, coffee steam swirling up

from my left hand as I typed.

WellWoman1. Exclamation point.

WellWoman2. Exclamation point.

The numbers went as high as ten

or twelve, perhaps, moving one tick

higher every time HR in their wisdom

forced a change—always at the most

inconvenient moments. I’ve a new

password now, by the way, because

I have written this poem, but still

I love to be reminded of the woman

at the well, going about her day when

God’s only son calls on her for a drink

of water, wet and slick and cool

in the midst of dusty dryness, soothing,

and the situation makes no sense

to her. So she questions. God. Like I

would question even God, I must admit

to myself. Until she is the one who

is asking for something from Him. And,

as I replay the story in my mind, I wonder

what password she would choose—

LivingWater1. Perhaps?

©Rebecca Guess Cantor