Susan LaffertyLegacy, unintentional.
From the least likely.
A poor widow
unnamed
obscure
hidden
in the shadows
of wealthy patrons.
Slipping in
behind
crowds and
considerable contributions
at the temple coffers.
Weeds never quit. They sprout on the edges and in the thick of things.
I pull them out. Easily. Their small roots dangling with dirt. Then I cast them aside in the trash.
The next day, coming back from my walk, I check the state of the yard. Weeds. More of them.
They are relentless. Through drought and flood. In season and out of season. Crowding out the chosen plants.
Our firstborn was 14 weeks old when we moved overseas. En route to Pakistan.
The week before we left America, I held her close and wept. Quietly. With the door shut. In the bedroom at my in-laws’ home.
I asked the Lord, “What are we doing to our little girl?”
The weight of leaving what we knew and going to the unknown hit me hard that day as I rocked Becca in my arms.
But we finished packing our trunks and suitcases. Then boarded the Thai Airways flight across the ocean.
