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.
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.
My mother tells the story. Her dad was going blind. So every morning she or her sister would stop by the home where he stayed. And read the Bible to him.
One particular day, Mom was in a hurry. On a tight schedule. She rushed in with no time to spare. Out of breath and talking fast. “So, Daddy, which chapter do you want me to read today?”
In his slow Southern drawl, Grandaddy said “Well, how about Psalm 119?”
