Walking With Christ

Story time…

There once was a pasture where the grass grew high and the sun shone gently, and in the center of that field stood a large iron trough.  It was the pride of the land.  The farmer who tended the field was respected by many, and the sheep gathered daily to drink from the trough.

For a time, the water was clear, cold, and abundant.  It came from a spring that never ran dry—piped directly into the trough from the mountain.  The water was so pure, it kept the trough clean.  No rust, no buildup, no sickness.  The sheep flourished.  The flock grew larger.  Other troughs were built to keep up with demand, but there was always enough.

One day, the farmer—seeing how rapidly his flock had multiplied—went to the local priest for a blessing to build even more troughs.  The priest prayed and came back with an answer:  “Not yet.  The Lord says it is not time.”

The farmer was frustrated.  Why would God delay what was clearly a good thing?  But he obeyed.  At first.

Then he began to seek other ways to grow the flock.  He went to other farmers with large flocks to ask them what they were doing to get such large flocks.  He learned a lot.  He added vitamins and minerals to the water.  Flavoring agents to make it more appealing.  And the flock did grow.  The farmer was praised far and wide.  But he didn’t see that the additives had begun to react with the iron.  Rust formed—small at first—then spreading.  It went unnoticed, or worse, was excused.

“The rust adds character,” the farmer said.
“It’s not harmful.”
“Sheep don’t need things to be perfect.”

But the rust wasn’t alone.  Tiny holes appeared—drilled from beneath by unseen hands.  Sabotage.  Jealous rivals.  Enemies of the spring.  The holes began to leak, but the water still flowed strong.  The farmer didn’t patch them.

“The supply is abundant,” he told the sheep. “God will provide.”

Over time, carelessness joined the rust and sabotage.  The water level dropped.  Slowly, then quickly.  The troughs no longer held what they once did.  And the water that remained no longer tasted the same.

Some sheep noticed.

“There’s a bitterness,” they said.
“A metallic sting.”

The farmer silenced them.

“I prayed.  God told me to do this.”
“You’re being divisive.  Ungrateful.  Dangerous.”

Some of the sheep left to find new fields.  A few brave ones climbed the mountain to find the spring itself.  But most stayed.

They stayed because the farmer told them this was the best trough.
They stayed because they feared the wilderness.
They stayed because they trusted the man who used to feed them well.
They stayed because they didn’t want to believe anything had changed.
They stayed because they loved the farmer.

And when the water began to run out, rationing began.

The strongest sheep—the ones who produced the most wool—drank first.  They always had.  They filled themselves.  The others waited.  Some got just enough to survive.  The weakest got nothing.

But they didn’t leave.  They sat beside the trough, whispering lies to themselves:

“I don’t need much.”
“Others need it more.”
“Maybe I’m being tested.”
“Maybe I don’t deserve more.”
“The good Lord gives and takes away.”

And they never questioned the trough.

Even as the rust flaked into the water.
Even as the holes widened.
Even as the sickness spread—fevers, blindness, fatigue, and even death.
They stayed.

They blamed themselves.
They blamed each other.
They blamed the weather.
They blamed the wolves.
They blamed everything—except the system that was failing them.

The farmer heard the grumblings of the flock and answered them.

“The water level hasn’t changed.”

“The enemy is spreading false rumors.”

“Real sheep won’t look for another trough.”

“This is the best trough in all of the land.  You won’t find better anywhere else.”

The well-fed sheep didn’t notice the decay at first.  They were fat.  Insulated.  First in line.  They still had enough.  But the sickness didn’t spare them.  It just moved slower.  The poison was in the water.  And no one was immune.

The spring still flowed from the mountain—pure, unfiltered, alive.  It never stopped.  The source had never changed.  But the trough had.
And so had the farmer.
And so had the flock.

Because a trough is just a tool.  It’s not sacred.  It’s not the source.  It’s a method of delivery.  When the delivery becomes corrupted, no one is righteous for staying—not the sheep, not the shepherd, not the farmer who refuses to clean it, and certainly not the ones who blame themselves for being thirsty.

The spring still calls.
The water still runs.
But you have to leave the trough to find it.

---

[⚓ Floatie] [✒️ Forge] [⚒️ Anvil] [🔥 Ember] [🌿 Covenant Triumph]
This post follows the Forge Baseline Rule—layered truth for the discerning remnant.