Susan LaffertyMotionless. I sit. In sunlight. Stilled by loss and grief spilling across screens and down streets. Through personal stories of friends and strangers. Hard and sad.
Bitter wounds. Raw pain rooted deep. Laid bare.
Motionless. I wait. Stilled by the scale of it. What are we to do? Hands rest, palms up.
Eyes lifted to open sky between tall trees.
Wordless cry to the One I trust.
Inside the cover of a 1995 journal, I find these words: In case of evacuation.
And underneath, a simple list. What I hoped to take.
Bible. Journals. Baby books. Two baby quilts Mom embroidered. Photos. Recipe book.
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.
