At the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, there’s a tradition older than most of the buildings that surround it. The Old Well, first built in 1793, sits at the heart of campus like a quiet witness. Every semester, on the first day of classes, students line up to drink from it. The belief is simple and hopeful: sip from the Old Well on day one, and you’ll earn a 4.0 that semester.
Hope has a way of making people do funny things.
My freshman year, I was determined not to miss it. My first class wasn’t until 12:20 p.m., so I figured I had plenty of time. I put on my first-day-of-school outfit, fixed my hair, maybe even added a little mascara (because first impressions matter, even to a fountain apparently) and headed toward the quad around 11:30.
Looking back now – rookie mistake.
When I arrived, I was met with a line that felt endless. At least two hundred people, maybe more. I heard whispers that some students had come at midnight, just to be safe.
Standing there, watching the clock, I felt the weight of a choice: superstition or punctuality. The well or my first college class.
I chose class and headed toward the lower quad, telling myself it probably wouldn’t have worked anyway.
Years passed.
By senior year, time moved differently. Slower. Lighter. I started walking some mornings with a group of friends – one of those habits that only seniors develop, when there’s time to fill and endings looming. One morning, we passed the Old Well, and without hesitation, one of my friends peeled off, leaned over, and took a sip.
I stopped in my tracks.
First, because I was pretty sure the water was shut off in the winter. And second, because somewhere deep inside me lived a strange superstition that this might mess with my grades (even though a 4.0 was no longer in the cards for me.)
She noticed my face immediately.
“What?” she asked, laughing. “I drink from it all the time when I pass by on runs.”
“All the time?” I said, genuinely stunned.
“Yeah. Why not?” she shrugged. “It is a fountain.”
That moment lingered with me longer than I expected.
Because I think this is how we approach Jesus sometimes.
We treat Him like the Old Well on the first day of classes – something sacred, yes, but reserved. A place you approach carefully. Intentionally. Preferably when you’re put together. When you’ve planned ahead. When you’re dressed right, said the right things, waited your turn.
We think we need to be polished before we come close.
But what about the days when we’re running late? The days when we’re out of breath, worn thin, desperate for refreshment? The days when we don’t have time to fix our hair or gather our thoughts or say the prayer.
What if He’s not waiting for formality at all?
There’s a woman in the Bible who shows me He isn’t.
She met Jesus at a well, too – but not in the middle of a crowd. Not during a holy hour. She came alone, in the heat of the day, heart heavy and hoping not to be seen. Her life was complicated. She wasn’t someone others would have expected to be the recipient of divine attention.
And yet, Jesus met her there.
Not once she had it all figured out. Not after she cleaned herself up. Not when she brought the right offering or asked the right question. He met her exactly where she was – thirsty, tired, and carrying more than she could hold.
What strikes me most is that she didn’t even know what she was really looking for. She came for water. Ordinary water. The kind you draw and carry and eventually run out of. But Jesus offered something deeper – something that didn’t depend on circumstances or seasons or superstition.
Living water. A source that doesn’t dry up.
That’s the invitation, I think.
Not “come when you’re ready.”
Not “come when you’re worthy.”
Not “come on the first day, at the right time, dressed your best.”
Just… come.
Come when you’re passing by.
Come when you’re out of breath.
Come when your life feels messy and your faith feels frail.
Come when all you know is that you’re thirsty.
Because He isn’t a monument you have to plan for.
He isn’t a tradition you can miss.
He isn’t a reward you earn by showing up early.
He’s a well that’s always running.
And sometimes the bravest, truest act of faith is simply believing that you’re allowed to drink.
Friend, not only are you allowed to drink. You’re invited, you’re welcomed. You’re sought.
Sit and stay awhile.
Amelia Fisher is the author of Ever-Present, a collection of essays exploring faith, identity, and finding God’s presence in everyday life. She is a student at Duke Divinity School and enjoys writing about the ordinary moments that become metaphors for deeper spiritual truths. Her writing can be found at Ever-Present Pages on Substack and in her book, Ever-Present.
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