In Which I Deny Water to a Thirsty Man

Some days, I’m afraid it’s not immediately obvious that I’m a follower of Jesus. Monday was one of those days. I had more dings than a hail-damaged car in a Texas parking lot.

I’d been romancing the bottle most of the day, wrestling with my confidence at work, dealing with setbacks and generally failing to accomplish things at the speed and level of excellence I had prescribed for myself. By the end of the day, I was one bad email away from marching to the corner store for a bottle of wine to take the edge off. On a Monday, no less.

Ding!

I have a new boss starting this week, and as an administrative assistant, the boss/assistant relationship is a special little ecosystem. I want to make a good impression. I want to be competent, organized, indispensable and generally the kind of person who makes her boss think, "Oh, thank God. They hired an adult."

Instead, I was thinking more like someone who has a real problem with alcohol.

Ding!

So I picked up my keys to make a wine run, thoroughly fed up with myself and my inability to manage my own emotions like a grown woman, when I heard the unmistakable "shave and a haircut" knock at my door.

Immediately, I was livid.

(Aside: I am so profoundly over the roofers, tree trimmers, HVAC installers and assorted neighborhood entrepreneurs who patrol my street looking for someone with thousands of dollars to throw at a problem they didn't know they had until five minutes ago. If I wanted to finance a home improvement project, I promise you, I'd be able to find one without assistance.)

The dogs went berserk. I threw my keys onto the counter, stomped to the door, ripped it open and prepared to give the person on the other side a carefully curated selection of my thoughts.

Ding!

There stood a huge, sweaty guy, smiling like he had a fantastic opportunity for me.

I stepped outside, pulled the door shut behind me (because it's 800 degrees here, and I wasn't about to air-condition the neighborhood), and faced him with all the warmth of a cold front we can’t seem to get down here in these parts.

"Hey! Nice shirt!", he complimented my ratty Heritage High "Go Coyotes" football shirt, which I bought back when Melina and I used to attend games a few years ago.

"I graduated from there," he said.

"Is that so?" I replied, with all the enthusiasm of a woman being held hostage on her own front porch.

Then came the windows. Apparently, the neighbors down the street had gotten new ones, and this was my opportunity to join the elite ranks of people whose windows presumably no longer allow weather to enter their homes.

"No."

"But—"

"No."

"But if you—"

"No."

"But your neighbors—"

"No, no, no, no, no, and for the love of God, no."

Eventually, I had managed to persuade him to take his window-based ministry elsewhere.

But before he left, he stood there sweating profusely on my porch and asked:

"Do you have a bottle of water?"

Friends, this is where my Christian witness went from mildly dented to a full-blown insurance claim.

DING.

Did I Matthew 25:35 him? "For I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink..." Did I recognize a sweaty, thirsty human being standing in front of me as an opportunity to practice the kind of love Jesus actually talked about? Did I remember that whatever I did for the least of these, I did for Him?

No, I did not.

I said, "I don't drink bottled water. I only drink from the tap. Sorry." And shut the door.

DING-DING-DIGGITY-DONG.

I mean, technically, I wasn't lying. I don't drink bottled water. But apparently, I had momentarily decided that Jesus' instructions came with a bottled-water exemption clause: "Blessed are the thirsty, provided the host has an unopened Ozarka."

The worst part? It didn't even occur to me until after the door was closed that I could have simply gotten the man a glass of ice water and brought it outside.

I had all the necessary equipment. Faucet. Glass. Ice. Human compassion, theoretically available somewhere in the building. And yet, in the moment, my brain offered me exactly one solution: No bottled water. Sorry.

Then I stood there, horrified by myself.

Not because I had refused to buy his windows. I remain entirely comfortable with that decision. But because a thirsty person had asked me for water, and I had found a way to make his thirst a logistical inconvenience.

I thought about running down the street after him with a pitcher of ice water, like some kind of repentant, hydrated Samaritan.

"WAIT! I HAVE WATER! AND I'VE HAD A SPIRITUAL AWAKENING!"

But he was gone, and I was left standing in my entryway, ashamed.

I briefly considered drinking my shame, which had been my plan before the window salesman arrived in the first place. But by then, I didn't really want to go anywhere. Which was probably a small mercy, because I was already having enough trouble with my decision-making.

I do a lot of thinking.

Not so much action, clearly.