The Water Keeper

by Charles Martin

“Writes over the old memories. Makes beauty out of pain. Love writes what can be.”

Water heals itself. Every time. I like that. And if I’m being honest, maybe I need that.”

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

She stared out across the water. “In case you haven’t noticed, we’re swimming in pain right now.”

and like the rest of the human race—had been and was continually asking two questions: Who am I? And more importantly, whose am I?

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.

In Eden, we walked in the cool of the evening with a Father who, by the very nature of the conversations and time spent together, answered our heart’s cry. It was the product of relationship. But out here, somewhere east or west of the Garden, beyond the shadow of the fiery walls, we have trouble hearing what He’s saying. And even when we do, we have trouble believing Him. So we wrestle and search. But regardless of where we search and how we try to answer the question or what we ingest, inject, or swallow to numb the nagging, only the Father gets to tell us who we are. Period.

“That we were made to want and give love. That no matter how dark the night, midnight will pass. No darkness, no matter how dark, can hold back the second hand. Whether you like it or not, whether you want it or not, whether you hope it or not, whether you build a wall around your soul and cut out your eyes, wait a few hours and the sun will crack the skyline and the darkness will roll back like a scroll.”

“Love is an amazing thing. It takes the brokenness, the scars, the pain, the darkness, everything, and makes it all new.”

‘We don’t love because people love us back. We love because we can. Because we were made to. Because it’s all we have. Because, at the end of the day, evil can take everything save one thing: your love. And when you come to realize that, that the only thing you really control in this life is your love, you’ll see, maybe for the first time, that we’re all just lost.’

“He leaned in and whispered, ‘Apollumi. And the needs of the apollumi outweigh the needs of the ninety-nine. So . . .’ He tapped the pad again. ‘Tell me who you love.’”

I’d spent my life searching for and finding the lost. Returning the one to the ninety-nine. But who would rescue me? Who would return the pieces of me to me?