Susan LaffertyWe board a flight with passports in hand. Tickets to the far side of the sea.
No turning back now.
Seatbelts fasten. Engines roar. And this capsule we’re all sitting in hurtles forward then lifts.
Up. To and through the clouds.
Sun pours in.
I look down at the neat miniature houses, roads, fields, forests.
One last look.
Christmas. Worship Him.
In the loud or silent.
Amid crowds or all alone.
At the table overflowing or simply breaking bread.
Surrounded by decorations and gifts, wrapping and ribbons. Or without all the fanfare.
In your home or at the church or elsewhere.
Worship Him.
Two years ago on this day, I sit beside my husband’s bed in the ICU. Two stents newly inserted into one of his arteries. Blood now flowing freely through his heart. In a place formerly 100-percent blocked.
Only hours before, we walk. Drive. Talk. Laugh. Following everyday routines. Ordinary schedules.
Not knowing danger lurks.
Oblivious to unseen, unnoticed blockage wreaking havoc. Beneath the surface. Under skin and flesh and vessel.
