The other morning, as my six year old daughter was watching me shave, she suddenly asked, “Daddy, where does God really live?”
“In the well,” I answered absent-mindedly.
“Oh, Daddy!” Debbie voiced her disgust at such a silly answer. At breakfast my wife asked, .What’s this you’ve been telling Debbie about God living in a well?”
“In a well?” I frowned. Now why had I told her that? Then, all at once, a scene came to mind that had been in my memory for 30 years. It had taken place in the small town of Kielce, in south-eastern Poland, where I was born. A band of passing gypsies had stopped at the well in our courtyard. I must have been about five years old at the time.
One gypsy in particular, a giant of a man, fascinated me. He had pulled a bucketful of water from the well and was standing there, feet apart, drinking. Some of the water was running down his short-cropped fiery-beard, and his muscular hands held the large wooden pail to his lips as if it weighed no more than a teacup. When he had finished, he took off his multicoloured silk scarf and mopped his face with it. Then he leaned over and looked deep into the well. Curious, I tried to pull myself up the well’s stone rim to see what he was peering at. The giant noticed me. He smiled and scooped me up in his arms.
“Do you know who lives down there?” he asked. I shook my head. “God lives there”, he said. “Look!” And he held me over the edge of the well. There, in the still, mirror-like water, I saw my own reflection. “But that’s me!”
“Ah,” said the gypsy, gently setting me down. “Now you know where God lives.”
(Sourced from the internet)
