Susan LaffertySun beat down on flat roofs in long Karachi summers.
Electricity failed. Lines melted. Disconnecting and falling in the street.
The interior of our home was an oven. Climbing over 100 degrees at times.
We read of people dying in Chicago one summer. Why? Fans combined with heat above a certain temperature in their apartments turned those spaces into convection ovens.
Oh. We were getting cooked.
“What’s your name?” I ask. And the man stumbles over his answer.
Gives me one response. Then another.
At first I think it’s miscommunication. I’m still learning culture and language, after all.
But soon I hear the story behind the struggle.
His story.
In the most unlikely places, a song of truth plays. Or Scripture is repeated. Even memorized. Without explanation.
And the words somehow settle in the brains of young ones. Not fully grasped or understood. Tucked in a corner.
Until one day, clarity comes. And the distant, vague memory is brought to life.
“Now it makes sense.”
