Susan LaffertyTreasure. In my childhood, any mention of it fascinated me. Inspired imagination.
Treasure buried. Hidden. The historical findings of archaeological digs revealed in layer after layer.
The mystery, captivating. How various clues led to discovery. Of riches. And ancient civilizations.
In those days, I dreamed of becoming an archaeologist. But meanwhile, I was on the lookout. Tracing evidence that might lead to a prize.
It was a last-minute wedding. An unforgettable event. Singing about true love. And walking through the unexpected.
The love song put me and my guitar there that day. In the old sanctuary with its stained glass windows and antique pews.
The church secretary had called a few days before.
A young couple was engaged to be married. The young man had just received military orders and would be shipped out the following week. So they’d decided to get married that weekend. Would I sing?
“How did he turn out that way?” my teenaged son asks. We’re standing at the kitchen table. On summer vacation in Arizona.
He’s distressed. Witnessing up close the rage and deceit of someone he’s trusted and admired. The downhill slide is shocking.
“It probably started with one lie,” I say. “Then another. And another. Until finally he was living a lie.”
What I do not know at the time of that conversation will come to light a month later. The fact that our son has been lying to us. For a while.
And has moved to “a far country” of deceit fueled by anxiety. Even as he lives within the four walls of our home.
Prodigal.
The father of lies is after his very soul.