Susan LaffertyWe dodge auto rickshaws and taxis and goats, crossing a main road. Ten years ago in India.
Our guide asks if we can go to the red light district and pray. Saying, “Be ready. The spiritual battle is intense.”
We step around the corner, into a lane. And I see them. Women in front of narrow doorways on a broken street. Some just sitting. Staring.
Others take care of daily tasks—cooking rice, washing clothes, feeding children.
Ordinary things.
The wilderness soundtrack sounds like desert thirst. Barren field. Little fruit.
We sit in a conference with workers from some of those fields. Where the gospel has been sung. Refrain after refrain.
To no response.
Their voices strain at the chords. Lament in the place of veiled hearts. Where darkness is palpable.
I remember. The struggle to keep singing in the land where captives remained captive. Hearts closed to the One and Only.
My parents are cleaning out cabinets. And bookshelves.
They’ve done this before. Purging. For moves across states and across the world.
But this is different. A time for downsizing. Studying space. Deciding what will fit in the next spot.
They’ll move to a smaller place. One of these days. So now they are paring down. Letting go.
They push things into my hands when I express interest in a painting. A book. “Take it.”
