Susan LaffertyThe one who speaks truth finds himself walled in. Weighed down. Worn out.
No hope. Only the crooked path. And a deep pit. Face in the gravel.
Affliction. With no end in sight.
This. When he’s fearlessly made known God’s ways. And wept over the judgment of a disobedient people.
Jeremiah laments.
Early morning dark.
Dawn, only a whisper
in the air.
We walk. Step by step.
Following a road
to the place of tombs
and death.
Slow in sorrow.
Wrapped in the fog
of grief.
Not looking for the living
among the dead.
Loss.
The memory comes back. Distinct. Clear. From 1972. One hot, humid afternoon in Kediri, Indonesia.
I’m just arriving at our home. After being away for high school a couple of months. In Jakarta.
Standing outside. Reaching for the handle of the screen door. And suddenly a subconscious map surfaces. One I never knew was there.
A map of presence. Home and those who belong in it.
Without warning, the realization of deep loss hits. Full force. There’s an empty space on that map.
The place where my sister Ann has always been.
Grief. Tangible.
