Susan LaffertyThe 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.
The weight on my heart is not a frantic, anxious weight. It’s the weight of prayer. Prayer for my dear friend who is suffering. She wades through deep waters in this season. Crushed.
Crying out to You the hurt. The upheaval. The unknown.
And yet, even there she speaks of Your faithfulness. Even there, Your word sustains. Daily manna, she says. And ponders what the God of the impossible can do.
“If we believe He is who He says He is, how can we not hope?”
Isaac lay on the altar watching his father prepare to sacrifice. No sacrificial animal in sight. A strange place for a beloved child. It didn’t make sense. His father had said “The Lord will provide, my son,” but time was drawing near and here he was, bound on the altar of sacrifice. Unexpected. Unexplained.