Susan LaffertyDuring those first years in Karachi, I struggled to find a place of morning quiet. With the Lord.
We were navigating the muddle of culture shock and power breakdowns. Learning a language with completely new sounds and an unfamiliar alphabet.
Trying to establish a rhythm for preparing clean water to drink. For getting food on the table. Daily.
And figuring out how to parent our children. I gave birth to our first child at the age of 33. And soon experienced what I now refer to as “mother shock.”
The journals come in all sizes. Most have survived extremes. Dust and drought. Mold and humidity. It shows.
They hold my life records. The common, daily occurrences of a cross-cultural life. The ongoing spiritual battle.
And the struggles of our children in the midst of it all.
Constant illnesses. Anxieties. Hurt. Fears.
In dust and drought. Mold and humidity.
We cross Bourbon Street to the beat. Jazz filters out of various establishments down the lane and around the corners.
Colorful lights and tunes draw us into the restaurant. Our party of six is ushered up narrow wooden steps to one of several dining rooms on the second floor.
Derrick the waiter greets us. And proceeds to describe the night’s special offerings in smooth, rapid New Orleans speech. We catch some of what he says, guessing at the rest. And look at the extensive menu of Cajun and Creole dishes.
After unhurried perusal, we order.