Susan LaffertyThe look on her face is one of awe. Sheer wonder.
“It is hard to imagine,” she says. “I never dreamed God could be like that.”
I am watching mystery revealed. A startling front row view of how He works.
The tropical rain was pounding the pavement, flooding the side yard, pouring dense and loud. Riah laughed and said, “We call this a rich man’s rain.” Oh? I looked up curiously. She continued, “On days like this, the poor man cannot work. And when he doesn’t work, he doesn’t get paid. And when he doesn’t get paid, he doesn’t eat and his family doesn’t eat. That’s why we call it a rich man’s rain.”
Northern Pakistan, 1993. Sitting on a charpai (rope bed), we sipped icy bottled Cokes pulled out of a hole dug in the glacier beneath our feet. Far below through a sparse screen of pine trees, we could see the river rushing over rocks, pushing green glacier water down into the valley.
It was a refreshing stop after hours on dusty roads. We breathed in the cool air, the rugged beauty of the mountains, the quiet. Years later when the Taliban began raiding and taking over Swat Valley, I grieved for the people there. I remembered the green farmlands and the primitive stone and slate houses we walked by that week. I wondered if travelers still stop for icy drinks at the glacier.