“When we listen, we hear someone into existence.”
― Laurie Buchanan, PhD
I didn’t even get a name. I mean, even Mary Magdalene, at least she got a name. It’s Zilpah, by the way, in case you were wondering. Named after the last wife. They always forget about her. I’ve been coming to this well for years. My whole life, of course. But I mean coming at noon. That’s a relatively recent development.
When I was married off at 14, the women fawned over me, they’d let me go first in line, early in the morning, when it was cool and all the women would fetch their water. My hair was always braided. And even though my husband was thirty years older than I, he bought me the finest robes. And one day I was helping mother milk the goats, and the next day, I was a bride. Two of the goats came with me. My brideprice. Charlotte and Martha were their names. The only thing I took with me from my childhood. When we were married, he bought me my own water pitcher. I kept it on the shelf so everyone would see when they came in that I was a properly married woman. Then he died. It was so quick. And he had debts. And his brother sighed and took me in. It’s the rules after all.
Maybe it was me, maybe I’m poison, or cursed, or I neglected him somehow. But by the time I was sixteen, I’d been widowed. Twice.
So I was passed on to the next brother. Charlotte and Martha came with me. And my pitcher. After the second husband died, I didn’t get first in line at the well in the mornings. Nobody noticed my braids anymore. My robes were faded. It’s just how life goes though, you know? The third brother was a drinker. He’d always start the day with the best of intentions, but then he’d get tired, and grumpy, and he didn’t like how I made the bread. So by about noon, he was slouched in the corner, wineskin in one hand, head drooped, a little bit of spittle on his chin. He’d snore loud when he was drunk. I guess it’s hard, being a man. One day he just wandered off. I kept house and fetched the water and milked the goats for weeks, and nobody ever knew. Those were nice days. Just me and the girls. I’d come later and later to the well, just to avoid the gossip. Just to be alone.
Of course, they found out eventually. I’d distract and avoid and delay the bill collectors as long as I could. But, you know, a twice widowed woman in tattered robes can only distract for so long. And, you know the man, he always comes to find you. He always gets what he’s due. That’s when I got husband number four. I was twenty-two. I guess he was my husbands’ former landlord’s niece’s son, or something, so when he got the house, I came along with it. But three husbands gone and my womb still closed, I started to sleep in in the mornings. There was still water at midday. So I went then, especially when the morning sickness started. I was like a bingo card - one stillborn, two miscarriages, and then, finally a girl. Number four was pretty mad about that. The girl. The failures. The time it took to get my body back together. She was beautiful though. I named her Rachel. Jacob’s favorite. No one would forget her name. She came out hard and fast, I caught her with my own hands, he took one look and walked away. I didn’t even notice that he didn’t come back for a few days though. She was so beautiful. She nursed so well. Her eyes were so bright. She’d stare wide-eyed right at me whenever I gave her a drink.
When he did come back, he had a certificate of divorce. He wasn’t angry. Just matter of fact. I hadn’t met my end of the bargain. He gave me a day to gather my things. I took Rachel. I took the pitcher. I walked out into the kind of heat you can see rippling off the sidewalks. I’d turned one of my old robes into a sort of sling for Rachel. I knocked on doors, asked for odd jobs, the laundry, scrubbing the tile, milking the goats, and we got by. I rented a room. I tried to save so that I could go home. Introduce my family to Rachel. Maybe my mom would let me come home now. Would she remember me? Would she recognize me? Would she turn her back in shame?
But the woman of the house had a fever, and the next day her husband took me to the gates and made it official. I guess I was his now. I was twenty five. It was fine. At least I had a roof over my head. Some goats to milk. Rachel was getting strong. Her first word was “no!” The bruises healed eventually, but I couldn’t stand the stares I’d get waiting in line at the well. They were full of disgust. Full of pity. The first time I found a bruise on Rachel, I thought she’d tripped. She was always twirling and dancing in the sun. But the second bruise, I knew.
We left at night. She asked “why” and “where are we going” about a thousand times. “I don’t know” I said. I said, “I think I must be cursed.” We wandered a long time. The pitcher of water I’d brought dried up, Rachel began to whine. And then to cry. And then she stayed real quiet. I didn’t have a plan. I just followed the road as it took us further and further away from that day I was fourteen, hair braided, new robes, the women fawning, and I was first in line to fill my beautiful new pitcher. It was so hot. The road was dusty. I just needed a minute to sit. Just a minute to rest.
I don’t know how long I was out. But it was dark. Rachel was nudging me awake. “Momma, momma,” she said, “a man is coming.” He stopped, he let us into his wagon. He made us some tea. He took us back to town. He let us stay in his home. I knew it wouldn’t be free. There is always a price. But he let us stay. And Rachel grew up. She’s fourteen now. Looking for suitors, always dreaming, always eyes above her station. She knows I have no goats for her.
And I went to the well in the middle of the day, in the heat of the day, as I usually did, because I couldn’t stand the whispers, because I knew I wasn’t welcome, because this place of gathering and community would be vacant while everyone took their midday naps, and I could weep in peace. I know I look older than 36. Years of avoiding eye contact have a way of forming a permanent hunch in your back. Years of getting water at noon have a way of turning your skin to leather.
And there he was.
He looked as tired as I felt.
I don’t know how long he’d been waiting, but he had his head in his arms, and his back was rising and falling, up and down.
I almost didn’t stay. Could we do without water until tomorrow? This man could demand anything from me, and I would have to give it to him.
I turned away, trying to do the calculations in my head, a gallon for the goats, a gallon for the wash, a few cups for the meals. Maybe I could just come back tomorrow.
But he cleared his throat. It was scratchy. He said, “Give me water, please.”
I almost laughed out loud.
Seriously? You want some water, from me? Do you even know who you’re talking to?
Maybe he thought I needed permission or something, because then he said, “Go get your husband and come back.”
Then I did laugh out loud.
And then I finally said it out loud.
The tears came quick. I wasn’t expecting. “I have no husband.” I swallowed hard.
“I know,” he said. “You used to have five. And the man you’re living with now isn’t your husband.”
And he knew. He just knew. He knew my whole story.
All I said was “I have no husband,” and he knew about the marriage at fourteen, he knew about all the dead husbands, the disappearing husbands, the beating husbands, even the night on the road and Rachel shoving at my arm to get me awake. My whole story. And he still wanted a drink. From me.
And he let me ask questions.
And we talked theology.
And we discussed politics.
Like I was one of the guys.
Like I could be taught.
Like I got to sit at the table, and not just set it.
And then he let me know him. He said, “I Am.”
I was startled when the crowd of men came running up to him. I’ve seen my fair share of freaked out men, and let me tell you, these guys were freaked.
I left my pitcher.
I just ran off.
What was I thinking, a woman talking to a man, a Samaritan talking to a Jew, a widow carrying her curse around in her weathered skin and hunched shoulders? I didn’t even give him a drink! I just ran. I left him there, thirsty, surrounded by scandalized men, my first husband’s pitcher set on the well’s edge like my whole life had been.
And then suddenly I was knocking on doors and shouting in the square, “Hurry. Come see. This man knew me. Really knew me. My whole story. And he asked for a drink. And then he said, “I Am.” Could he be the one we’ve been waiting for?”
My name is Zilpah. This is my story. I am Zilpah. And that man at the well in the heat of the day, he is I am. This is what I know.
See, some people get their miracles through dramatic healings, fevers cured, eyes opened, children lifted by the hand from their coffins. Not me. I’ve never seen loads of fish straining their nets. I’ve never feasted with a crowd on five loaves and three fish. But for me, that dry and dusty road that stretches far ahead of me, that threatens to take the life from me, that weathers my skin and hunches my shoulders, for just a moment, there was a little fork in the road, an exit sign, a detour, and for just a second, I saw a different way, there was a different path, and I was free.
This is my story. I’ll not be ashamed.
This couldn’t be the Messiah, could it? Could it?
Thanks be to God.
