The seed of David has cross-pollinated with certain strands of Gentile genetic fiber, resulting in a hybrid breed of man with spiritual roots sunken deep in the soils of ancient prophecy.
Intermingling of sacred blood with unclean bodily fluids of the Romans during barbaric wartime raids on small Jewish villages resulted in a most unique form of human species, similar to the vegetables and fruits found in supermarkets today—one that does not rot, one resistant to temptation, and a crop that stays fresh longer on store shelves.
The children and mothers who survived these war crimes turned from traditions of ancient Jewish society and with their inherited gift of God’s promise, and knack for surviving the most brutal of environments, pressed on for generations as the world transformed into a more Christian- Christ based society.
The scattered, half-breeds hid and survived behind the cross of the Roman Catholic Church for centuries. Most such offspring, unlike chosen Dave Doolittle, forgot or misplaced the gifts that God instilled within them when such genetic combinations had transpired on earth in biblical times.
Begotten Dave Doolitte was from a strand of DNA stretching as far back as the prophet Jacob– the patriarch who constructed the well in the Samaritan village of Sychar. Despite his modern name, Doolittle was indeed a sapling from those cedars of Lebanon, whose life the Lord seems to enjoy splintering, yet to society around him, Dave appeared like any other good Christian, despite the unusual form of a cross that he carried.
Like his ancestors, Dave Doolittle had a gift for pinpointing the underground location of water for the purpose of constructing wells that never run dry, like that of his ancient ancestor that runs to this day. Dave, with a forked stick from a peach tree, could hone his hidden treasure and show famers and new home owners in Pennsylvania where to go down, on their property, for the freshest and most purified form of the universe’s most essential element.
For the first part of his adult life, until the age of twenty-six, Dave made a modest living, working as a strange, demonic-possessed sort of Doodlebugger in a barren land of mostly non-believers. When prayers from a Methodist preacher for rain failed, the county called upon its only known prophet—Dave Doolittle—a sinning loon who never failed when it came to a good spring. For ten bucks, a six pack and a few jars of jelly, Dave was called upon, time and again, even by the Mennonite people from these parts, who often consider themselves as the only true masters of such spiritual craft.
On clear sunny afternoons or under the light of a full moon, Dave walked with a stick held high above his long, curly red hair. Dave’s blue eyes fluttered as he strolled one careful step at a time. The blue veins of Dave’s fluttering eyelids, when struck by golden sun, appeared as Israeli Irises growing from clay pots that were his pupils.
The work as a water-witch was hard, unrewarding, seasonal, and paid little. At nights, following days of walking around, waiting for the spirit to trigger a jolt from his fingertips, he suffered from cramped legs and he shivered in cold night sweats, tossing in dreams of endless grey seas.
It was the rubber wheel and the effect that such modern inventions had on the burning inside such men as Dave Doolittle that caused him to abandon his craft—his God given skill of finding water. The stress from driving a truck was so much less than facing the energy that poured through him when he sought water underground. He thought, after getting his truck driving license, like so many church goers in the town of Alexandria where he grew up, that his gift of pinpointing water was somehow associated with evil and the devil. Life was much easier behind the wheel and Dave, until the day he wrecked his truck in the snow, believed that being a trucker was his true calling. He enjoyed a life without ridicule.
As little Susie Bear sat eating the chocolate covered cherries that had spilled from the truck that Dave wrecked in Breezewood, and as blood poured from the corner of his sad, blue eyes, he looked up from his bed of snow to see an endless sky filled with white puffy clouds that seemed to pull from him every last bit of energy left to his soul—that spark that drives us on, day to day, was evaporating like morning dew.
“Hey mister? Are you okay?” Little Susan Bear asked, her tiny red lips glowing red as she attempted to keep inside her mouth the handfuls of sweets that had fallen as manna in the snow that day.
Dave felt something had been lost inside him—it had—his gift of dowsing had been taken from him by God in that crash. As he turned his bruised, bleeding head to look at the fat child eating the shipment he had hauled from Hershey, he realized where the gift had gone—and despite being near death at that moment, a peace that passes understanding washed over him.
(To be continued)