The Moon in the Water Pitcher

A thin moon hung over the town of Bistam, in Persia. In the courtyard of a small mud-brick house, the leaves of a pomegranate tree moved in the night breeze. Inside, a boy named Bayazid lay curled under his blanket, fast asleep.

Many years later, Bayazid of Bistam would become one of the best-loved Sufi teachers of all. But tonight he was only a boy, and his mother was unwell. She had had a fever all day.

A small sound came through his sleep. "Water..."

Bayazid's eyes opened. It was his mother's voice, thin and dry.

He sat up at once. The house was dark and very still.

"Water," she said again, very softly. "I am so thirsty."

Bayazid slipped out of bed. His bare feet made no sound on the cool clay floor. He could see his mother lying on her mat, her face pale in the faint moonlight from the window.

He went to the corner where the big clay pitcher stood. He lifted it. It was empty. All the day's water had been used.

His heart gave a small pinch. His mother was thirsty, and there was nothing to give her. The town well was a short walk away. But the night air was cold, and the lane was dark.

He looked at his mother, at the little frown on her forehead. Suddenly the cold and the dark seemed very small things.

He picked up the pitcher, opened the door quietly and stepped outside. The cold air made him shiver. Overhead the stars were thick and bright, so close he felt he could touch them.

At the well it was even quieter. He could hear water gurgling far below. He lowered the bucket on its rope, drew up cool, clear water and filled his pitcher. It was heavy now. He held it with both hands and walked carefully home, one step at a time, so as not to spill a drop.

When he got back, his mother had fallen asleep again.

Bayazid did not want to wake her. But he did not want her to wake up thirsty and find no one there. So he knelt beside her mat, holding the pitcher, and waited.

The night grew deeper. The moon climbed higher. The room grew colder. Bayazid shivered, but he did not move. His fingers grew stiff around the cold clay. Still he waited, watching the patch of moonlight creep slowly across the floor.

The old stories say he waited like that until almost dawn.

At last his mother's eyes opened. She saw a small shape in the grey light, kneeling beside her, holding a pitcher.

"My child," she said in wonder. "Have you been there all night?"

"You were thirsty, Ammi," he said. His voice was a little hoarse from the cold. He helped her sit up and gently tipped the pitcher to her lips.

She drank the cool water slowly. It was the sweetest water she had ever tasted.

Then she looked at his small cold hands, and her eyes filled with tears. She placed her palm on his head.

"May God bless you, my Bayazid," she said. "May your heart always be as full as this pitcher. May you always find joy in serving others."

Bayazid leaned his head against her shoulder. Warmth spread through him, warmer than any blanket. The pitcher sat on the floor beside them, its work done.

When Bayazid was an old man and people asked him how he had come so close to God, he often told this story. "Everything I have," he would say, "began with that night, and my mother's blessing."

Outside, the first light touched the pomegranate tree, and a sparrow began to sing.

One day you may bring us water too, little one, but for now we are the ones keeping watch beside you.