Susan LaffertyPicking up a pen. And opening my notebook to a fresh page. I keep writing.
Remembering times I’ve jotted down thoughts in Southeast Asia’s tropical humidity. Hands sticking to the paper. Ink smudging along the way.
Or cities on the subcontinent where I’ve huddled in a blanket. At my desk. On mornings when tile floors and no heat mean cold seeps into the bones.
Regardless, I keep writing.
Treasure. 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.
One Christmas in Karachi. Mary’s travel to Bethlehem in her pregnancy catches my attention. And imagination.
I’m expecting our second child at the time. Struggling with all-day sickness. I put myself in her shoes. On the rough road from Nazareth.
Arriving. Travel weary. And finding no place to stay.
Making do in temporary quarters. Where animals are kept.
Giving birth.
Away from home and the familiar.
Placing a newborn in the feeding trough.
Yet, treasure. In the midst of it all. She holds the Savior of the world in her arms.
