Susan LaffertyOur firstborn was 14 weeks old when we moved overseas. En route to Pakistan.
The week before we left America, I held her close and wept. Quietly. With the door shut. In the bedroom at my in-laws’ home.
I asked the Lord, “What are we doing to our little girl?”
The weight of leaving what we knew and going to the unknown hit me hard that day as I rocked Becca in my arms.
But we finished packing our trunks and suitcases. Then boarded the Thai Airways flight across the ocean.
“Momma. Momma.” I woke from a deep sleep. In the middle of the night.
Jenna, 6 or 7 years old at the time, was standing next to the bed. Pressing my arm.
Yes?
“I heard a voice. Like this…” her voice changed from sweet innocence to a guttural growl. “‘Jenna, I’m going to get you.’ And there were two red eyes. And he laughed like this…” It was an evil laugh.
I sat up straight in bed. On high alert. Heart pounding. Wide awake.
Inside the cover of a 1995 journal, I find these words: In case of evacuation.
And underneath, a simple list. What I hoped to take.
Bible. Journals. Baby books. Two baby quilts Mom embroidered. Photos. Recipe book.
