When Thirst Turns a Picnic Table into a Water Well

Lent Reflection #4: Psalm 63

Have you ever read something—a poem, a prayer, a passage of scripture, a story, a letter—and not been able to shake the first line or verse? That’s my experience with Psalm 63.

O God, you are my God; I seek you; my soul thirsts for you; my flesh faints for you, as in a dry and weary land where there is no water.

Picnic Table at the Shrine.

Several years ago, while still living in Florida, I was back in Michigan for a summer visit. A cousin and I had been planning a trip to the Upper Peninsula for quite some time. We drafted a loose itinerary with space for spontaneity. Our expected stops included Mackinaw City, Tahquamenon Falls, Pictured Rocks, the shoreline of Lake Superior, and all the watery spots we could fit in.

My cousin and I had a special connection. Our relationship meant so much to me. She knew me and parts of my life in ways that most do not. She was a source of support when many were not. We shared a unique bond and strong level of trust. And even though our religious and political beliefs were vastly different, until this trip they were a footnote and not a whole chapter in our common story.

As we prepared to set out, she asked if we could take a detour. A side trip to a Holy Shrine, where Mary—the Blessed Mother—is believed to have appeared. Knowing a little about this place, my first response was a question, “will your queer protestant cousin really be welcome?” I was most worried about the queer part, but threw in the protestant part to help ease my angst.

Her response was more dismissive than assuring. I was unable in that moment to advocate for what I needed or to speak up for what I wanted. I was afraid to voice my fears. I convinced myself my worry was overblown and my concerns invalid. I cared more about her wishes than my own wellbeing.

The Shrine is in a very rural place. Surrounded by farms and fields of corn and other crops. I would have missed the turn if not for the directions coming from the phone synced with the car. We toured the property. Met a few other travelers. Watched a documentary on the Shrine’s history. The video, along with signs and pamphlets, offered more information on the place and the people behind it, and their religious doctrines and political positions.

Suddenly old conversations had new context. Strange communications had clearer meaning. A book she’d sent me, written by a priest associated with this institution, made more sense. Her emotional reaction to my identifying as queer had better perspective. My spirit felt less and less safe. The rainbow stripes on my shoes and shirt felt more and more like a target. My freshly faded haircut felt like a scarlet letter not just on my forehead, but my whole being.

While my cousin went in the sanctuary to pray, I did what I often do when I’m not sure what else to do. I started walking. Not through the well-manicured gardens or the newly paved path that housed the Stations of the Cross, but way out into the fields and then into the trees. The grass had just been mowed. The birds were chirping in a way that echoed the sound of the hymns being played through a loud speaker. The bees were buzzing and the flies biting my ankles. The extremely hot sun was burning my neck and stealing my breath. I wanted to keep walking, to go farther into the woods, to find out who and what was there. Maybe there was a lake, or a river, or a stream. But I was so thirsty that I had to stop. Physically and spiritually I was parched. I wanted to cry, but there were no tears. I wanted to run, but there was no strength. I wanted to hide, but there was no shelter.

And then I saw a picnic table. It seemed so out of place. Who put this there? Who would stop to eat or drink at it? I sat. Tried to catch my breath. Find my composure. Figure out a survival plan. As I began pondering my surroundings, the choices that led me there, and just how thirsty I was, I was reminded of how faith has been both a source of hydration and drought. Christianity has watered my soul and withered it. Scripture has taught me how to swim and almost drowned me. Church is where I was baptized in grace and flooded with shame.

Tahquamenon Upper Falls.

It was a Wednesday. And on that sweltering summer day as I sat alone, far from home, my imagination transformed a picnic table into a water well. This was in the very early days of 10 Camels. When a dream was starting to awaken. A fuzzy vision coming into focus. Before Wednesdays at the Well began on Substack, they were semi-regular, sometimes random posts on Facebook. The first post was stirred in that field.

My heart was seeking, not as much for God as it was for water. I was so mad at myself. Why had I gone there? Why had I not said no? Why had I let myself get dehydrated by someone else’s seeking? The thirst was bigger than that day. The longing greater than any one moment. The grief deeper than any one ruptured relationship. The purpose of 10 Camels grander than I realized.

10 Camels isn’t just about telling stories or writing poems. It isn’t just about words or water, but the healing possibilities of bringing them together. It’s not just about church or religion, but all the places and experiences that leave us longing. It’s not just for LGBTQIA+ people, but for anyone who finds themselves wandering and wondering.

10 Camels is not a replacement of the ministry I began while serving in my former denomination. It is a new expression of it. A more authentic me. A more creative me. Turning words into water. Water-filled words of hope and healing, encouragement and challenge. Waterous words that sustain and empower, that give us strength to be who we are, and name what we need, and pursue all that we seek. Wondrous words that speak honestly to the things that not only quench, but also cause our thirst.

Tahquamenon Lower Falls.

When I made my way from the picnic table to the door of the church building, waiting for my cousin to exit, praying about whether or not to enter, there was a small drinking fountain. It took great effort, but I was able to generate enough energy to get just a drop of water to trickle out. It wasn’t much, but in that moment, it was enough. Enough to remind me that God doesn’t require us to put ourselves in parched places, and yet when we find ourselves there, water will come right when we need it most. That small drop was just enough for me to find the voice to say yes.

Yes, I will care for my own body and spirit by no longer drinking from fountains of those whose water is laced with sneaky messages of condemnation and judgement. Yes, I will pour out water and sprinkle words for those seeking sustenance in dry and barren lands.

We did make it to the shores of Lake Superior and the majestic falls of Tahquamenon, but those views were blocked by our very different experiences at the Shrine. That trip is the last time I saw my cousin. We had a few more phone calls and messages, but ultimately the rupture in our relationship proved too big to repair. You cannot force someone to affirm your humanity, to let go of strongly held beliefs about sin, sexuality, and gender. You cannot let your soul wilt trying to prove to another that you’re worthy of love and living water.

Sometimes thirst keeps us so fixed on the first line or verse that we cannot immerse ourselves in the rest of the story. The experience of that trip left me stuck for awhile. There was much to process and to grieve and to release. Since that time, I have grown and changed and 10 Camels has moved into new and exciting waters. Wednesdays at the Well has expanded its audience and its message. My love of water has widened. My understanding of thirst has deepened. My commitment to quenching more thirst than I cause is stirring my every step.

Sign on path to the Falls.

What is your experience of thirst?

Think of a time you have been physically thirsty. How did it feel? What was the cause?

Think of a moment or season you have been spiritually thirsty. Where did you seek water? How did you quench your thirst?

Where does thirst exist in our world today? What water do you have access to? What water might you share?

With Water & Words & Wonder,
Rebecca & 10 Camels