a woman at the well
essays on femininity: a reclamation of what it means to be a daughter of the King
I took a long walk in our neighborhood the other day. We had rain coming in that evening and a mind full of thoughts and questions and waiting. And I’ve found walking helps me clear my head (in fact, there’s a great article about the connection between walking and cognition that I highly recommend. It’s no wonder that the writers of classic literature walked extensively). An ancient practice. There’s something about ancient rhythms that I’m finding good for my soul.
So, with my baby girl and husband napping at home, I trudged up the hill, arms folded against the wind, until I reached the bench at the top that overlooks the hillside adjacent to our housing development.
And I sat and waited and breathed and let my attention wander without agenda or purpose. Just to be present.
And I began to notice the plants.
They were planted by the neighborhood and for all I know about botany, they may very well be native plants. They’re meant to be orderly and contained and groomed.
But they’ve grown wild in places, green tendrils reaching upward unrestricted, stretching toward the sunlight. Some are downright overgrown and the perfect home for nesting birds. I wonder, as I listen, if they’re hatching babies right now or if the unseasonably cold weather has delayed it. Still, the chirps persist in a sweet, quiet song accompanied by the rustling of leaves in the wind. Sun pours from between rain clouds and paints the hillside in a sea of greens and brush.
I relish the quiet and the peace, even with the neighborhood, its straight, obedient lines and matching trim and stucco, at my back.
There is space here.
I wonder if the ancient women of Israel had places like these, beneath cypress and olive trees, instead of oak. Places of rest and peace on their route to and from the well where they’d strategically draw water for their household’s daily needs to avoid the heat of the day. I wonder if there were women who paused along the way to breathe fresh, warm air into their lungs and let the Mediterranean breeze rustle their hair and remind them that the space they occupy is real and tangible and beautiful and that there is always something completely holy and blessed for the eyes that are willing to see it.
The hillside burned a few years back, and I sit here amazed at the green that surrounds the burn area so that is becomes part of the landscape in a way that melds seamlessly - even naturally - with the new growth. Charred and gnarled bare-limbed trees stand out but they’re surrounded by the lush green of new growth - in abundance. And so this hillside is still lined with scars but they’ve become part of the natural landscape. The refining fire and the new growth exist together. Indeed, the green would not be possible without the blackened wood and greying brush.
Breathtaking.
I sat in the sun until a thunderhead rolled through and the wind picked up before heading back down the hill, my mind quiet and calm.
This is a refining season, hard and holy work. But far from somber or sad.
I have some things I’m praying over this season, and something about walking and laying those things at Jesus’ feet with intention changed my entire perspective on those things.
Suddenly, I realized and experienced what it means to come before His throne boldly, not as a subject to a king, but as a dearly loved daughter to her adoring Father.
When we choose to see God like that, we get to experience the freedom and utter loveliness of being a women. Soft and loved and cared for.
And friends, this changes everything.
We don’t have to be hardened by the world to walk strongly and confidently in it, nor does strength need to be defined solely by masculinity. Instead, we can be soft - married or single, mothering or giving from a different place - knowing that we are delighted in and loved deeply by the One who orchestrates the wild dance of viney plants and oak tree leaves and rain clouds and sunbeams, and who refines by fire but creates beauty from the ashes.
Praise God from whom all blessings flow.