Susan LaffertyThis past week, I sit numb. Shaken. Shocked by sheer brutality.
And cry out for the ones who can’t breathe.
Weep for those with necks slammed against asphalt under the knee of racism. Relentless, insidious racism. Again and again.
The snake slithers. Just beneath the surface of society. Often hidden in the dark. Feeding pride and arrogance. Fear. Prejudice.
Injustice.
It’s early 2013. Delhi, India. And I’m standing at the bathroom sink. Crying out to the Father. Again.
I can see the marble counter. The dingy mirror. Remember the blur of anguish. Helplessness.
“What are we to do, Lord? How do we help our son?”
The Lord has already made two things clear to me in that season (as detailed in Prodigal, Part 1).
1. Wait. Wait on the Lord.
2. Devote yourself to prayer.
Now I’m standing on the tile floor, in evening shadows. Pleading.
Ancient paths. The image fixed in my mind is a smooth clay trail in the bamboo forest. A path of my childhood. Worn by years of feet traveling from one ridge to the next. Winding through the valley. Around boulders and past simple thatch homes.
It’s an old path. A good path. That takes me where I need to go.