Susan LaffertyCollege student on a flight. Me. Heading to the unknown.
Meeting up with the rest of the team in Seattle. Then we fly together across the Pacific Ocean to Taiwan. There we’re scheduled to serve for ten weeks in various cities.
Suddenly, people on the plane start exclaiming. Calling others to look out the windows.
Clear, blue summer sky.
And we’re flying over snow-topped Mt. Rainier.
Magnificent.
Eighth grade. My bike traveled smoothly, softly in the quiet. On the dirt path through bamboo forests.
Shaded relief from strong tropical sun on a humid day.
Freedom. Breeze lifting my hair.
Lacework of bamboo shadows flowing over me. With bits and pieces of bright sunlight.
Rest.
Specific names. Or initials. Scribbled in ink. Indelible. On lined paper in plastic-bound journals bought at the local bazaar.
Thirty years later I’m reading the pages. Details about our encounters with them.
Conversations. Situations.
Prayer requests recorded. Hospitalizations. Heartaches. Crises. Losses. Spiritual confusion.
