The Water Keeper

by Charles Martin

“Does what?” I searched for the words. “Writes over the old memories. Makes beauty out of pain. Love writes what can be.”

Rejection is the deepest wound of the human soul. Bar none. And only one thing can heal it.

Belonging comes before identity. Ownership births purpose. Someone speaks whose we are, and out of that we become who we are. It’s just the way the heart works.

But love is a difficult thing to kill. Actually, it’s the only thing in this universe or any other that you can’t kill. No weapon that has ever been made can put a dent in it. You might punch it, stab it, whip it, and hang it out to dry—you can even drive a spear through it, pierce its very heart. But all you’re going to get is blood and water, because love gives birth to love.

Love is like water. No matter how you cut it, slice it, beat it, or blow it into ten trillion droplets, give it a few minutes and it will all come back together again. Like nothing ever happened. No scar. No shrapnel. Just one giant body of water. Clear. Clean. Cool. Love fills the empty places and flows from what was once the epicenter of the wound. And it’s the flowing that washes out the residue of the pain and makes us whole again. That’s the crazy miracle that is love. The more you pour out, the more you have to pour. I don’t understand it, I just know it’s true.

Love does that. It erases the pain. The darkness. The stuff that wants to hold our head under the water. Love reminds us who we are and who we were always meant to be. And there never has been nor ever will be anything that can kill it.