It started with a man we didn’t recognize.

He showed up at the mission frantic, agitated, talking fast. He said his wife — or maybe his girlfriend, it wasn’t clear — was missing. He said she had been abducted. He was upset enough that we took him seriously, but there were gaps in the story that didn’t quite line up. We hadn’t seen him before. We hadn’t seen her either.

He left still anxious, still pacing, convinced something terrible had happened.

Later that day, a woman walked into the office and bought a soda.

We didn’t recognize her either. She said she was new to the area. She laughed easily. She joked. She didn’t seem afraid or unsettled. If anything, she seemed relaxed — happy in a way that didn’t match the earlier panic.

It took longer than it should have to realize she was the same person the man had been looking for.

Some time later, she called the office asking if we could deliver water.

She didn’t have an address. That wasn’t unusual — most places out here don’t. But this was different. She dropped a pin on a map and gave directions the way people do when there aren’t any landmarks you can name: turn at the fence, and we’ll meet you to guide you in.

When I put the pin into my phone, Siri didn’t offer directions.

It offered a warning: Be prepared to park your car and walk to your destination.

Out here, almost everything is dirt road. But this wasn’t a road. It was the kind of track you wouldn’t notice unless you already knew it was there. The kind of place you don’t end up by accident. The kind of place people choose when they’re hiding from someone — or from something.

We were in my Jeep Gladiator, which mattered more than usual that day. We also had a water blivet in the back. Without both of those, we wouldn’t have made it. Even then, it felt like we were testing the edge of where vehicles were meant to go.

We followed the faint trail for about a quarter mile until we reached an oil pump jack moving steadily in the middle of nowhere. We went around it, followed another barely visible track for a few hundred feet, then turned back up a small rise.

At the top, we found them.

An old fifth wheel sat alone, patched together with tarps. No electricity. No running water. A fire pit outside. Empty liquor bottles scattered around. Even now, I’m still amazed it was there at all. Getting something like that into a place like this would have taken effort, intention, and time. It didn’t end up there by accident.

The camper wasn’t just remote — it was intentionally out of sight.

Out here, not having running water isn’t abnormal.

Hauling water is simply part of life.

Families plan for it. Containers matter. Vehicles matter. When any one of those fails, everything else becomes harder. Living without water isn’t rare. Living without a way to get it is where things unravel.

When we asked where they wanted the water, they told us they didn’t have any containers.

So we improvised.

We filled pans. Coolers. Bowls. Cups. Whatever would hold water, even temporarily. When we ran out of anything clean or obvious, we rinsed out empty liquor bottles and filled those too. It wasn’t ideal. It wasn’t safe long-term. But it was what we had, and it was what they needed that day.

Scripture reminds us that God’s people have always lived with the weight of water — finding it, carrying it, guarding it. “He split the rocks in the wilderness and gave them drink abundantly as from the deep” (Psalm 78:15). Water in the Bible is rarely convenient. It’s searched for. Depended on.

Out here, it’s no different.

We didn’t fix their situation. We didn’t clean it up. We delivered water. And then we left.

Sometimes that’s what ministry looks like.

Not resolution.

Not transformation.

Just showing up with what you have — and trusting God to use even that.