Susan LaffertyThe 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.”
The candle flame moves. Flickers. Casting large shadows on the walls. I sit in the edges of its light.
All the celebrations of last week give way to winter quiet. Time to remember and reflect. Looking towards the future.
In past seasons there was little time for this quiet space. A long one, anyway. The season of raising three young children comes to mind.
Even then, the hurry in my soul needed me to sit. Rest. Looking to the One who knows my days.
