Susan LaffertyRefuge. In the tropical afternoons of my childhood.
I’m sitting on soft dirt. Amid twisted roots. Under a canopy of thick, intertwined bougainvillea branches growing by the backyard fence.
Shelter. From unrelenting sun.
Shade. For afternoon play with plastic teacups and bowls. A plentiful supply of leaves and blossoms within reach.
The secret place where I can rest. And just be.
The slow but certain flood of a tsunami moves across the globe today.
I’ve watched videos from the one that marked our lives in 2004. The wave that advanced silently. Powerfully. Into Aceh. The water just kept coming. Pushing further inland. One bright, blue-skied day.
And then, as waves do, it pulled back out to sea. Leaving devastation. Empty communities. Unimaginable loss.
Today. The other tsunami. Changing the topic of our daily conversations. To quarantines and lockdowns. Limiting spread to flatten the curve. Shortages of medical supplies. Death counts.
And I remember the Scripture verses that gave hope to the inexperienced. In the December 2004 tsunami and the year that followed.
Storm. Sometimes it comes out of nowhere. Fierce. Sudden. Unpredictable.
The recent tornado in Tennessee roared through. In the middle of the night. Unexpected. Devastating.
Today COVID19 continues spreading across the globe at a rapid pace. Insidious. Unsettling. Unknown.
And traveling along under the radar, another kind of storm. Often unspoken. Filtering through conversations and across the airwaves.
Fear.
