Susan LaffertyFrom a young age, I heard about Jesus and His love. Sang songs about Him. Listened as my parents read Bible stories. Our family prayed often. I was loved and cared for.
And yet.
And yet I was lost. Fearful. Felt the darkness. Something wasn’t right. And I knew it. “Do not lie” seemed to compel me toward that very thing. Lying.
We dodge auto rickshaws and taxis and goats, crossing a main road. Ten years ago in India.
Our guide asks if we can go to the red light district and pray. Saying, “Be ready. The spiritual battle is intense.”
We step around the corner, into a lane. And I see them. Women in front of narrow doorways on a broken street. Some just sitting. Staring.
Others take care of daily tasks—cooking rice, washing clothes, feeding children.
Ordinary things.
The wilderness soundtrack sounds like desert thirst. Barren field. Little fruit.
We sit in a conference with workers from some of those fields. Where the gospel has been sung. Refrain after refrain.
To no response.
Their voices strain at the chords. Lament in the place of veiled hearts. Where darkness is palpable.
I remember. The struggle to keep singing in the land where captives remained captive. Hearts closed to the One and Only.
