Susan LaffertyPages torn out of old journals rest in my hands. Stapled together. Written by my father at 28 and 29. Newly arrived on the field overseas.
Entries penned in precise style. Possibly with the Parker ink pen I can picture in my mind. Dad’s writing instrument of choice for years.
He turns 90 this month. And this window into his thoughts over 60 years ago reveal the foundation of a life wholeheartedly committed to his Lord.
No ordinary life.
Emptiness grows. In the stained-glass halls of deluded prophets and shepherds.
Those who speak visions from their own minds. Of their own making.
Instead of delivering the true and unchanging Word of God.
Reading Jeremiah, I see this.
And watch how truth interrupts compromise.
Dawn. And I’m walking on a path interrupted by roots. Stumbling on acorns hidden beneath fallen leaves.
The way feels uneven.
Unpredictable.
I can’t look up. In the grey. Before full light reveals.
