Darkness echoes to me as I look down into my writing well. Words are not plentiful today—or this month, really. Writing takes oh-so-much effort when I need to scrape the bottom of the well for the remnants of waters past.
I like it best when I come to the well, and it’s full to the top, brimming with phrases and ideas that are sure to quench the thirst of any soul. Just a quick dip of the bucket is all it takes to grab my supply. Then I’m off to my patch of sky, filling it to the full.
But that’s not the status of my well in these days.
Much effort is needed to lower the bucket, down, down, down, all that way to fetch a slosh of something to say. That little splash doesn’t go very far, then it’s back to the rope, lowering the bucket into the deep for another round.
Still, I labor. This is my work, the work that I (mostly) love. And love doesn’t promise the way will be easy, just that you will feel it is worth the effort required.
And so I give. What sprinkling of words I have, I offer freely. I give, knowing that it means I have nothing left.
I trust that the well won’t remain empty forever. Until then, I trust that my bucket will scrape the bottom for whatever is pooling there, the words that I might never extract unless those were the only ones remaining for me to appreciate and apply.
I am the widow Jesus spoke of, who gave out of her poverty. Hers was a poverty of coins; mine a poverty of words. But these words I have, I give freely, though they deplete my supply. I toss in my two small copper coins, trusting that they are better given than held close. I give them to my God, for He has proven so very faithful with every offering, every investment. He will bless and multiply even my poverty for His fame and for His glory.