I know that taste, sharp on the tongue, a warning that what ought to refresh you now makes you uneasy. A motel room already feels thin and temporary, and when even the water turns strange, the whole world seems a little less safe. You drink, and you wonder. Your body tells you something is not right, and your heart feels the weariness of one more thing to carry. I am not going to brush that aside, as though it were a small matter. Our Lord who made the springs and the rain cares about the water you drink and the roof over your head. He who turned water into wine at a wedding can certainly look after a motel tap. But I want to speak to you for a moment about a deeper thirst, because this metallic taste in your mouth may be used by the Holy Spirit to remind you of a water that never fails.
I remember our Lord sitting by a well, tired and dusty, and asking a woman for a drink. He had no bucket, no line, no coin to pay with, and yet before the conversation ended He had given her water, not drawn from the stone beneath her feet but springing up from the heart of God. That water costs nothing. You do not need to deserve it, and you do not need to strain it for impurities. Jesus called it a gift, "the water that I shall give." Not the water you earn, not the water you find after searching every cupboard in the motel, but the water He gives freely, out of His own wounded side. I want you to picture that for a moment: from the spear-thrust that opened His heart there flowed a sacred wellhead, two rivers, one of blood to cleanse your guilt, and one of water to refresh your parched soul. Every impurity you have ever tasted in this life, every sin, every fear, every bitter providence, has its antidote in that stream. You may not be able to fix the pipes where you are, but there is a fountain open for you this very hour that has never run foul and never will.
Now, I do not say this to make light of Tuesday. Tuesday matters. The uncertainty matters. The metal on your tongue is real, and the thought that the filters are dirty is enough to unsettle anyone. But I want you to remember that your safety has never depended on a motel maintenance man. A ship in deep water feels the tempest rage, and the timbers groan, and the waves make their own terrible music, and yet a Christian in the hold can have a calm face, because the storm has a bit in its mouth and the same Lord who holds the oceans in His hand holds that vessel too. You are not in a ship on the Atlantic; you are in a room, waiting for a date on the calendar. But the same covering is over you. The Psalmist said it best: "He shall cover you with His feathers, and under His wings shall you trust." That is not a grand cathedral promise; it is a hen-with-her-chicks promise, a homely, warm, close-feathered shelter. You can crouch down under it right where you are, with the ice bucket full of water you cannot quite stomach, and the television silent, and the night pressing against the window. He is not waiting for you to reach a better address before He hides you in Himself.
I have watched, over long years, how the Lord often lets outward comforts grow thin so that we might discover how thick His inward comforts are. If the water tasted sweet you might never have thought of the living water at all. If the filters were clean you might have missed the love-token hidden inside a black-edged envelope. The providence that permitted this small distress is the same providence that gave His Son for you, and will He not, with Him, freely give you all things? Even a safe drink? Even a door that opens to a better place? I cannot tell you how quickly He will move on the outside circumstances, but I can tell you what He has already moved on: He has moved toward you in the Gospel. He has poured out His heart. He has given you His Spirit. The water that matters most is already yours by faith, and no landlord can meter it, and no corroded pipe can touch it. Let the taste in your mouth drive you to Him rather than away from peace. He knows. He cares. He is not far off.
Let me pray for you now.
Lord Jesus, You who are the same yesterday, today, and forever, look upon these dear ones in their temporary lodging. You know the anxiety that rises with something as simple as a strange taste in the water, and You know all the larger weariness that has put them in this place. Quiet their hearts with the certainty that they are sheltered under Your wings, not just in metaphor but in actual, vigilant, Fatherly care. Provide clean water for their bodies, and satisfy their souls with Your own self until Tuesday comes and beyond. Let them taste and see that You are good, and let that sweetness wash the metal from their spirits. We ask it because Your blood has purchased every good thing for Your people, and because You live to intercede for us. Amen.