Lent: Day Twenty-Eight

This is Malida. She lives across the river near San Juan (the second village in which we drilled). She must cross the river many times a day to go to school and market. There is no bridge, so she carries a spare dress to change into at school. If the river is flowing too high, she cannot cross.

When I was in El Salvador, I was struck several times by how differently I relate to water than much of the rest of the world. I see water as something clean, refreshing, and life giving. Water does not make me sick or prevent me from getting to the market. I do not have to break my back hauling water for miles every day. In one of the articles I wrote about our Living Water trip, I had this to say on the topic:

The Downpour

When it rains in El Salvador, it pours -- and I’m not talking about salt. Wave after wave of rain slams upon gardens, farmers, tin huts and roads. I see more rain in one hour than Wyoming sees in one year.

One night the rain and wind are so forceful, the power to our guesthouse is cut. As I lie in bed, sweltering without the air conditioning, I realize a few things. One, losing power is not a problem for most people in El Salvador -- because they don’t have any. And two, a rainstorm like this one could easily wash away their roads, their crops and the floors -- or more -- of their houses.

In the rain, my mind turns to American worship songs involving water, and I am struck by how silly they would sound here. So often we sing of drowning in God’s grace, of His love raining down, of His waves of mercy.

But here, water is dirty, angry, destructive and deadly. It does not satisfy. I can only pray the idea of God’s salvation being a fresh well of living water within them will be all the more sweet.