Susan LaffertyTreasure. In my childhood, any mention of it fascinated me. Inspired imagination.
Treasure buried. Hidden. The historical findings of archaeological digs revealed in layer after layer.
The mystery, captivating. How various clues led to discovery. Of riches. And ancient civilizations.
In those days, I dreamed of becoming an archaeologist. But meanwhile, I was on the lookout. Tracing evidence that might lead to a prize.
Refuge. In the tropical afternoons of my childhood.
I’m sitting on soft dirt. Amid twisted roots. Under a canopy of thick, intertwined bougainvillea branches growing by the backyard fence.
Shelter. From unrelenting sun.
Shade. For afternoon play with plastic teacups and bowls. A plentiful supply of leaves and blossoms within reach.
The secret place where I can rest. And just be.
Winter trees. In crisp air at dawn. Stark. Branches bare. Empty.
The fog drifts in.
As I walk in fading darkness, I think about friends and family members who are suffering.
Standing weary. In the fog of impossible circumstances. Living with ongoing crisis. Conflict. Some with never-ending pain.
Cold and unrelenting winds whip through the lives of these loved ones.
And I ask how to pray.
What is His way for trees in winter?
