A Letter, A Cry, A Presence

Dear Seven

Broken body, bruised, and torn;

although he’ll be more careful with the placement of scorn.

Your heart is now emptied of love, desire, and hope;

what remains are four chambers closed.

Your tears no longer fall upon a face long stained;

In a drought, water only satisfies a gluttonous person.

Oh, misery, listen –

You do not know I am here

waiting, and waiting and waiting; I’ll wait,

for she will soon seek me when leaves this hate.

I sing, within, songs of beauty, devotion, and faith;

I will cleanse her of all when in letters she bathes.

Hear me as I beckon memory’s control;

I am here, and I forever am the tune of her soul.

Some thirty years later, brokenness bent over wooden pew.

Don’t worry, I’ll whisper. I am here for you.

Why she asks over and over again. I am the piece of you that will never belong to men.

She wants healing, in cries out loud.

I know. I am here.

Let go of the child once bound.

-God

Pause for Reflection:

• What parts of yourself have felt locked away, like four chambers closed?

• Is there a place in you still waiting to be found, still singing within, still whispering: "I'll wait"?

  
  

Place a hand over your heart and take a long, slow breath. You are not forgotten.

Dear God

Content warning: The following letter contains traumatic memories. Please tend to your heart as you read.

I am no longer a child. I feared, yet expected rage’s attack on my body, but I found today that mere objects would serve a welcome touch. Was I to blame for something? Often, I thought so. Today, his daughter fell off her bike. Her body, skinned and bleeding, was somehow my fault. Such a sweet distraction, I developed an intense sense of responsibility for her, and in my mind, I felt that I had failed.

He called each into his room to receive our “confessions.” I knew how this encounter would end. When he called her first, a part of me longed to take her place. Another part of me quietly felt a sense of relief. I listened for what I had come to expect: screams, cries, bangs, but there was only silence. Had I stopped hearing? Had my body grown numb to what it could no longer bear? I don’t remember. She returned without a word. Her eyes were distant. It was my turn. I knew not to delay. I opened the door, but he wasn’t there. He called my name. I followed.

God, I have been told You were there, that You suffered with me. I want to believe that. I do. But I also ask: why didn’t You intervene? Why was I met with fear instead of rescue? I have imagined so many ways life could have been different. But the memory always leads me back to that room.

He perched himself on the closed toilet. I remember the clothing, the wallpaper, the smell of the room, too vivid to forget, too painful to revisit.

He gave commands. I obeyed. I braced myself for the belt, but something else came instead.

Something worse.

“Open your legs.”

I do not need to name every detail to say this: those moments fractured something inside me. They stole safety. They confused love. They clouded truth. And though I try to remember and forget, the memory lives within me like a locked box I cannot fully close.

When I thought it was over, it continued. He asked more. He demanded more. And I, so lost in fear and confusion, said something I will never forget: “Ask her to do it first.”

I grieve that moment. I grieve for her. I grieve for myself. Perhaps I thought we wouldn’t be alone if we both suffered. Maybe I was too afraid to be first again. I don't know. But I carry it.

Still, God… I long for healing. I long to believe You held me even then, that You wept when I could not cry, that You raged when I could not speak. That somehow, You are still mending what was broken.

I offer this letter not in blame, but in longing. Help me believe You were there, and that You still are.

- Seven

Pause for Reflection:

• What have you been told about God’s presence in your suffering?

• Can you identify where rage or silence still resides within you?

• What part of your memory do you wish to remember and forget simultaneously?

Take a moment. Breathe into your body. If possible, place your hands on your thighs and feel your rootedness in this moment. You are here now.

Dear Seven

I feel your first touch, the foul smell of intent as he spat, "Turn around." I am pierced with your first encounter with torment. I remember your clothes, the wall, the peeling paper attached to it, and the memory he stole. I sense your desire to rip it; to remove what it holds. Hold tight, my child, these are only the first steps. I accompany you into the fiery depths of hell.

- God

Pause for Reflection:

• Is there a younger version of yourself that longs to be seen or heard?

• Where do you feel the presence of God in that memory, if at all?

• Can you imagine God holding your hand as you walk back through that memory, not to relive it, but to reclaim it?

  
  

Breathe deeply. Wrap your arms around yourself or gently touch your cheek. Offer compassion to the part of you that remembers.

A Final Word

Dear Reader, if you’ve stayed with me this long, I want to thank you. This journey is not one of pity or performance. It is a path of reclaiming the fragmented self. I believe healing begins not when we erase the past, but when we give it voice and allow our God, who was always there, often silent but never absent, to begin the work of restoration.

May you write your way toward healing. May you remember with mercy. May you feel the divine arms wrap around your broken places and whisper, “I am here.”

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-Originally posted in a collection of poems and letters entitled The Us in Me as part of a healing project where one encounters the wounded child within from my first website, Becoming Sound (2018). Please click on the tag 'The Us in Me ' to explore further.