The Story of Living Water

Come close now, and listen. I’ll tell you a secret about the world.

You are a bowl of water walking on two legs. More than half of you is river and tide. Your heart beats like waves, your bones hold hidden springs, your blood flows like a creek that never stops. And every tear, every laugh, every prayer — they’re drops in that same stream.

There is no new water. Not in the clouds, not in the rivers, not in you. The water you drink today once cooled the dinosaurs, once rolled in Noah’s flood, once kissed the leaves in your mamaw’s garden. It only changes shape — mist, rain, creek, blood — but it never dies.

And here’s the wonder: water listens. Drop a pebble in a bowl and see the ripples spread. That’s what kind words do inside a person. Slam your hand down, and the water jumps sharp. That’s what mean words do. What we feel, what we speak, it changes the water inside us — and because we are bowls of water, it changes the people around us too.

Now look up at the clouds. Those are great jars hanging in the sky, listening. They gather our breath, our cries, our songs. And when they’ve heard enough, they pour it back as rain. Science calls it climate, Spirit calls it echo — I call it reckoning. For what goes up comes down.

If we live in cruelty, the sky brings hard storms — floods, droughts, winds that break. If we live in kindness, the rains fall gentler, steady, feeding the roots. Our choices, our moods, our love or our anger — they rise like vapor and come back as weather, both in the land and in the soul.

So remember this: the world’s storms are not just weather. They are mirrors. They are the earth and the heavens telling us how we’ve been living. If we want gentler rains, we must learn gentler songs.