Susan LaffertyWe returned to Delhi the summer of 2012 and all I could see was the dust. It coated every leaf on every tree. It covered all surfaces outside and inside. A thorough cleaning of our apartment yielded little evidence of the hard work. A few hours later I was wiping off another fine layer of the stuff.
Waiting. Yesterday our pastor continued his series on “Unexpected Jesus.” Danny took us to the story of Lazarus. A story of delayed arrival. Unexpected timing that found the friends and family of Lazarus in the thick of grief, at the point of numb acceptance that their loved one wasn’t coming back.
In their traditional beliefs, the soul hovered above the body for three days. Waiting. But the fourth day? Gone. No hope. It was the pinnacle of sorrow and loss in the death of Lazarus. Decay had begun. And it was the day of Jesus’ arrival.
Northern Pakistan, 1993. Sitting on a charpai (rope bed), we sipped icy bottled Cokes pulled out of a hole dug in the glacier beneath our feet. Far below through a sparse screen of pine trees, we could see the river rushing over rocks, pushing green glacier water down into the valley.
It was a refreshing stop after hours on dusty roads. We breathed in the cool air, the rugged beauty of the mountains, the quiet. Years later when the Taliban began raiding and taking over Swat Valley, I grieved for the people there. I remembered the green farmlands and the primitive stone and slate houses we walked by that week. I wondered if travelers still stop for icy drinks at the glacier.