On Kitten Creek

This well story had been about our family until now.  First, it meant that we would not have to haul water; second, it meant that we had God’s affirmation on our calling at the farm; third, and most affirming to me, was the promise of God’s blessing.  Always, but now even more so, I saw this land as God’s land, and we were but his stewards

The week quickly flew by.  Finding water was not the end of the story.  Now we had to hire someone to dig the line from the well to the house, a distance of about three hundred yards, farther than we had hoped.  But who was complaining at this point?  God had proven himself faithful in giving us this unusual well, and we were beginning to understand the depth of his love and the steadfastness of his character.  At this point in the story we thought we had withstood all of the tests and had grown into maturity through these tests, but, as I see now in my reflections back on those years, in many ways we were still babies, learning how to live in a trusting relationship with our Father.  And this would be the beginning of more and more lessons through the years.

Soon, the well story began to take on more significance.

It was Saturday evening and our living room was crowded with eager, creative, college students along with several college professors and a retired missionary couple. After meeting for over a year and a half, we had somewhat jokingly called ourselves The Group at the Place with a Plan.  But, it was time to define ourselves.    As a group, we had already planned and orchestrated a L’Abri conference at Kansas State University with over 700 people in attendance, and we were now planning to follow-up by hosting a Spiritual Dynamics Conference at the farm.  But we needed a name.

The discussion that evening centered on what name we would attach to this rag-tag group.  What name would identify us as we sent out brochures and contacted others?  We now had a base of 700 names from the L’Abri Conference.

Of course, I was the big proponent of a name that had something to do with the well. “This was God’s affirmation of what we are doing here on the farm already.  And a promise of His Spirit poured out.  Surely, we the name should have something to do with water.” Lots of water images began to be tossed around:  Living Water (already taken), Water of Life, and finally, Wellspring began to emerge as the likely candidate.  Most of those present came on board, but Judd was dragging his feet. Since he was an important part of this decision,  we continued trying to work toward a solution. We wanted not just a consensus, nor a majority, but a unanimous decision.

Let me give just a brief description of these people who had gathered together in our living room.  It wasn’t just that they were gifted, nor simply that they had given of themselves to this project.  We loved them.  They were called together by the Spirit, we fully believed.  They were family, and as a family we were committed to one another with a bond that was difficult to describe.

In the middle of our discussion, the telephone rang and Judd jumped up to answer it.  The call was coming from California.  Our pastor, Gordon Mollett, one of the godliest men we had ever known, was on the line.  Judd had served on the steering committee of that little church which was, even now, our model for how to do church.

When Judd hung up the phone that evening, he came back into the room chuckling. “Okay, you guys, I give up.”  Before he hung up Gordon had signed off with, “Remember, Judd, Jesus promised that from your innermost being will flow rivers of living water.”

“I concede, ‘Wellspring’ it will be!”

And so began a new dimension to the place and to this group who were gathering at this place.  We had a name.  It was a name that would be our identity, but it was also a name that continually reminded us from where the source of our power, our heart, and our vision would flow.  We were committed to listening to that source as we made our plans.  He was to be the well from which we gained our sustenance.

As much as I hate to admit my naiveté, I dared to wish that we would find, not only the needed water, but perhaps . . . could I even dare to believe, we would find oil?

Excitement had filled my whole being as my soul waited on tiptoe to see how God was going to fulfill this promise.  He was going to “pour out” blessings.  What did this mean?  Water right away, I am sure, since this was not really the issue.  The real issue was that he was going to bless the land with an anointing of his Spirit.   But, God also knew that we had little financial resources.  He had always seemed to supply the Schaeffers[1] (our inspirations and models) with the money that would help them continue their ministry, so would he not supply ours as well? What was God writing in the Swihart story?

God leads us on an adventure, and we are often mystified by the twists and turns that adventure takes. How often I have learned that I must let go of my own expectations and desires, and trust what he is doing.   In reading David Benner’s Sacred Companionship, [i]  I am reminded that God is interested in all of the aspects of our earthly lives, but his perspective is eternal, and his interest is in our personal transformation into who we were uniquely created to be as his child.  He was leading us very gently on a journey.

Judd had called the drilling company as soon as we made the final decision to move ahead.  After talking to neighbors to find out where their wells were located, we had chosen several spots where we thought there might be an underground stream.  First, though, we wanted to make sure that the old well was indeed dry. When the drillers showed up early the next day with the impressive drilling rig, I was ready.  Judd and I had decided to dig once again and deeper this time at the last well hole.  The men set up the rig, and the drill began to churn its way down through the hole and past the bottom.  As I watched, I leaned forward expectantly, my eyes  fastened on that noisy contraption, expecting any minute that there would be a great discovery.  If you know anything about well drilling, you know that the drill today spins its way effortlessly through rocks, clay, and dirt.  This old one ground, sputtered, clanked, and smoked as it methodically chiseled its way down.

After an hour of watching from a standing position, I went back into the house and retrieved my Dad’s old fishing stool that I had civilized by painting and stenciling.  I placed it as close to the men and their machine as I could so I could have a good view, but far enough away that I would not interrupt their hard work. With the three of us, the large drill, and the truck all sandwiched between the lilac bushes and the bank of a hill, I was probably more a part of the operation than these professionals wanted. The October sun was gently shining on my back, and besides the upheaval of dirt and the noise of the machine, I was oblivious of any other distractions or to the driller’s discomfort.  This was my post.  So sure that there would be a miraculous discovery of water I was glued here, wanting to be in on the great celebration.

Finally, after what seemed like hours, the drill was silenced and the men came over to discuss what they had found.  Our old well had simply been a small aquifer that we had drained in the last few months, and it would take possibly years to fill again.

So, where to drill next?  With our direction, they moved the drill down by the garage and set up again.  I could not afford to sit all day and watch the machine that was going to, somehow, hit the water supply that we had been promised.  I had household chores that must be done, so reluctantly I picked up my stool and went back to the house.  From the kitchen I could hear the clanking of the drill as it went after that illusive water.  No water in that spot, was the report.  Once more they moved the rig, this time across the gravel road.  The day was waning.  Drilling had gone on for eight hours.  When it grew quiet down in the field, I sensed that the men had quit for the day . . . without the promised water supply.  Disappointment, but not discouragement.  He had promised.  Yes, our faith was being tested, yet I could not doubt Cod’s commitment to us.

All of this drilling was costing us money that we had not planned. It was as though time had suspended, and we were waiting for it to begin again.  “Wait” is a word and a stance that has become familiar to us over the years.

When the drillers came back the next morning, they came to the back door and knocked.  Head down, moving from one foot to the other, the boss, finally looked at me and said, “Supposing we choose the sight to drill this morning?  We would like to move farther down in the field.  It may be farther from the house, but we think that area is more promising.”  At a loss for any other suggestion, I gave them my permission and blessing.  “You are the experts.  Go for it!!!”

Again, the chug of the motor as they started the drill and the clanking of metal as it hit rocks.  I continued my clean-up in the kitchen.  God would do what he was going to do without my observation, I reasoned.

It was an hour or two when the drilling seemed to come to a halt.  Two drillers appeared at the back door.

“Water!!!  Lots of water!!!” was the triumphant report.  They acted as though they had hit a gold mine.  Having dug hundreds of wells, they appeared almost disbelieving.  Most wells in our area were producing one half to four gallons a minute.  This well was producing more than a hundred gallons per minute. They were not sure exactly how much because they could only measure up to one hundred gallons per minute.  It became known as one of the best wells, if not the best, in the area.

“Abundantly more than we ask or think” (Ephesians 4:20).  We were committed now.  How was God going to create and sustain this ministry?  How would we work with him in the coming years?  Who would he bring along to join us?  The future was entirely in His hand.  Forward we would go.

[1] The book L’Abri by Edith Schaeffer had given us a model for living by faith and serving as a family, using their home in Switzerland as the focus of their ministry.

(Benner, 2002)

As I dialed the number that would connect me to Judd’s department at the University, I tried to collect my thoughts. Yes, I had tried the other taps. There was NO water coming from any of them. Obviously, at least to me, this was God’s response to my plea for direction; it was no coincidence. But now I was faced with explaining all of this to Judd who ultimately would feel the responsibility of determining the next step. Yes, we would discuss it and seek God’s direction, but a man will often feel the burden of the final decision. We were now in this together.
“Judd, we have a problem.” Tension, maybe a little panic, together with a sense of foreboding was probably conveyed in the tone of my voice. Judd always seemed to be able to balance my emotional extremes with an exaggerated calmness. Silence. And then, “Okay, can you explain it to me?” After a short conversation, together we decided to wait to call the well diggers or to check with anyone else until we had time to assess the situation.

That evening we had a lengthy discussion as a family. Our small monetary funds had nearly been depleted. With the last well, we had spent over a thousand dollars on one drilling that had seemingly been successful.  Should we try again? Or, should we assume God’s message was that we should change directions, reevaluate this farm venture, and maybe pull the plug on it? But where would we go?

How could we start all over again? We delayed a decision for another day. Meanwhile, we were without water again, and that meant some adaptations we had learned so well those first six weeks. Find big containers, minimize bathing rituals, save water by using the outhouse once again. Basically, back to the camping mode.

We started the next morning with a prayerful and very tentative approach. Now both Judd and I were listening to what God might be saying. No longer was I, in particular, very loquacious with God. I would let him speak to me. I would be quiet.

After I had cleaned the dishes and the kitchen as best I could, I grabbed my Bible and returned to the familiar old easy chair. I had been reading from Isaiah, so allowed the Bible to fall open and settled my heart. Glancing down at the open Bible, my eyes fell upon words that seemed to come directly from the mouth of God to me.

Once again I was awestruck. Truly, I understand the argument that we should never read the Word of God out of context. But I also know that the Word of God is “alive and powerful.” And after walking with God as long as I have, I know that he will interact with us in ways that we understand, especially when we are needing direction, guidance, reassurance. The verses that jumped off the page that morning were almost audible. I imagined Jesus sitting in the rocking chair beside me, his kind eyes gazing into my troubled heart. I have written the date, October 4, 1982 in the margin of my Bible. This is what I read;

The afflicted and needy are seeking water, but there is none,
And their tongue is parched with thirst;
I, the Lord will answer them Myself,
As the God of Israel I will not forsake them.
I will open rivers on the bare heights,
And springs in the midst of the valleys;
I will make the wilderness a pool of water,
And the dry land fountains of water
. . .
That they may see and recognize,
And consider and gain insight as well,
That the hand of the Lord has done this,
And the Holy One of Israel has created it.
Isaiah 41: 17, 18, 20

What did this mean to me? Exactly the assurance I was needing. God was in this. It was his land, we would be his stewards. He would provide not only the water that we were needing, but his Spirit, the Aqua Vitae, would bring the fruit and be the sustainer. Why? So that the glory would go to Him.

Now we could go forward with assurance. So, how was he going to solve this, exactly?

Then began another learning curve.

The school bus pulled out of the drive and I began clearing the table of its breakfast remains.  Without the luxury of a dishwasher, I filled the sink with hot soapy water and carefully slid the dirty dishes into the water.  After six weeks of carrying water from town, I still celebrated running water from the faucet. This dishwashing process had become therapy.

Shortly after we moved, we had located a spot near the house where Oscar, the original owner, had placed an old water hydrant.  When the well diggers finally came, it had not taken long before we had a functioning well.  The aquifer was only 60 feet down into the earth, right near the back porch.  A blessing, so it seemed.

The process of carefully running the dish cloth over each bowl, cup, and silver ware, rinsing each piece, and then drying and returning them to their rightful place filled me with a sense of accomplishment. It had become my meditative time.  Usually, this was a peaceful time, but that morning I was troubled, and I battled between my heart and my mind.

The weekend had been frenetic to say the least.  Looking out the window I saw mud, six-foot weeds by the buildings, work, and more work, and more work. Entropy had set in to this old farm, and although we had been working as hard as we could for the last five months, we were overwhelmed with all that still had to be done.

My heart was heavy.  This was to be a ministry, instead, work was the focus of our lives.  It took a lot to tame these tangled fields, overgrown yards, broken down fences, dilapidated buildings.  On the weekends we had help from the college students who seemed to actually thrive on the challenge.  But during the week, we, our little family, were faced with the stark reality of what we had jumped into with such enthusiasm.  And . . . all we had was our muscle.  No equipment.  After we had signed the papers for the farm, there had been a farm auction.  All the equipment that Oscar had used was gone now.  What we had in our possession were shovels, picks, rakes, the always in-use brush clippers, and a newly purchased old pickup truck to “haul things.”

The kitchen clean, the dishes put away, I slumped into the soft easy chair in the living room. It was time for “quiet time” with the best listener I have.  And I had lots to say that morning. “Lord, I am confused.  Our lives have become consumed with the farm, the buildings, the mud, and . . . hard work!  Did we not hear you right?  Are we stuck here out of our own folly, thinking that you were going to bless us with a wonderful ministry of serving others?  Please, please let us know that we are where we should be, that you are in this with us.”  The lament and the pleading continued for a while. I was trying to listen, but my thoughts were too loud to hear anything from him at the time.   “I need to hear from you,” I concluded. “I am willing to do what you want me to do, but I need to hear from you.”

There are times when God responds in ways that shake us to our core.  Times when we know, without a shadow of a doubt that he is speaking directly to his child.  This was such a time, although the interpretation was not immediately apparent. What happened next was one of those moments.

Feeling thirsty, I rose from my seat of lamentations and headed to the kitchen.   Grabbing a glass from the cupboard, I turned on the faucet and held my glass out expectantly.  But, no water came from the tap, that tap which had been running freely while I had done my dishes. That tap for which I rejoiced earlier that morning.    I froze.  God was speaking, and he definitely had my attention, but the dilemma was, what was the message?  My first thought was, “God is saying, ‘Get out of here.  This was a big mistake.’”  Or . . . what???  This was something I had to share with Judd, immediately.  (To be continued next post)