Man at the well

I went sledding on Wednesday at the local arboretum, there being no opportunity at the elementary school, which has the best hill in town but was off limits because class was in session. Curtis Arboretum was desolate, except for one man I judged to be about my age, and his German shepherd that felt inclined to exercise its guard dog prowess in the direction of my leg.

"He's all bark," the man said, and then turned his attention to my Flexible Flyer as I extricated it from the trunk. That led to a brief discussion, for obvious reasons, of how we wished we had our old LPs. Which then led (less obviously) to a commentary-of the unflattering kind-regarding his ex-wife. You know how you can often learn a stranger's deepest issues in the first 10 minutes of conversation? I felt his rage and loneliness and my heart ached.

But I went sledding anyway some yards down the slope. I kept glancing back to see if the man's car was still there, and after a while it disappeared. It has been haunting me since then: Should I have just blurted out the gospel? Even if we never "worked up to it" in a smooth way? Should I just have said: "Look, I will never see you again. I need to tell you, I know your pain, and there is a way out of this. You don't have to assume that all that awaits you is despair and more despair."

Do the Holy Spirit's promptings grow duller and duller if we don't obey his voice repeatedly? Do they grow louder and clearer when we do? And what would you have done if it were you-in a providential meeting with the 21st century male version of the woman at the well?

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