Today a man remarked about the shoulders we stand on. Suspecting this man not to be a closet Cirque du Soleil performer, I knew he wasn’t being literal.
Before I continue, I have to apologize:
I'm sorry. The last word of that first paragraph confuses you. And I apologize for that. It was my generation that obliterated "literal" from the language. You understand "literal" to mean "figurative." But "literal's" literal definition... ah, nevermind, it's hopeless. Anyway, sorry to leave the mother tongue a little less useful for you.
Back to shoulders…
This man mentioned that we stand on the shoulders of our ancestors, and then said that we drink from wells we didn’t dig. This thought hit me as profound—perhaps since I’d just taken a cool, refreshing drink from the church’s drinking fountain. It’s true. I drink from wells I didn’t dig, both figurative and literal.
I’m reminded to be grateful for the wells. Wells of habit, wells of tradition, wells of duty, wells full of stories, wells of prosperity dug with sacrifice and wells of faith. (Well… and wells of water, too)
I’m also reminded to dig wells for my children. Hopefully I can dig something that will last for generations. They likely won’t appreciate it until some hot day long after I’m gone, when they’ll quench their thirst then pause to wonder where the water came from. They may now know my name—that’s not important. But hopefully they know that someone back there cared enough to dig for more than their own benefit.
Hearken to me, ye that follow after righteousness, ye that seek the Lord: look unto the rock whence ye are hewn, and to the hole of the pit whence ye are digged. Isaiah 51:1