Dear Age Eight: The Fire Beneath Forgiveness

Some wounds do not cry out with words, but with fire. There are moments when the desire for justice blazes hotter than any dream of mercy. This blog post is one of those moments.

This next entry from The Us in Me is offered with sacred care. It reveals a brutal memory and the raw emotional truth of a child pushed far beyond the edges of safety. While it may shock the reader, it is a testament to something we all carry: the aching need to be heard and protected.

In my eighth year, I learned what hatred could feel like in the body. I imagined what it might mean to be free from the source of terror. These are not proud memories, but they are honest. And in the light of God, even these dark places are not off limits to grace.

Dear God

I planned his death today. At the age of eight, I anticipated the way he would die and smiled. Forgiveness? I realize, not for me. Once this thought has drenched your options, you are never the same; it lingers as an escape.

Pushed into the closet to wait, it happened. His children had already received the "whatever this was." Who cares? Did I not clean my room? Were chores not done to his liking? I looked at him or raised my voice to a pitch that hurt his ears – it didn't matter; it never did.

The room was dark except for a stream of light peeping through an almost shut door. He left it cracked on purpose, a cruel illusion of hope. Maybe he imagined I would crawl out like a scared animal, and he would punish me for that, too.

Why didn’t I run? Why did I never run? My legs longed to flee but curled beneath me like some false shield. And so, I waited. I looked up. The silhouette of a gun. I had never seen one up close but knew exactly what it was. I knew the power it held. The power I lacked.

I rose. Climbed the metal shelves. My small hands found the gun. I held it.

And

When he opened the door,

I killed him. I shot him without flinching. He was dead. I was free.

-Eight

Dear Age Eight

Murder, wishes, desire, and deceit,

why do you still cling to her?

I know deep inside she waits,

yet I must refuse your escape.

You try to quench

a drenched memory,

but a well that is dry

thirst will only supply.

How she yearns to know

what your trigger would show

to a soul that longs

for fate to be resewn.

Would you promise great value,

or offer her next great pursuit?

Would she be writing today?

What words would she choose?

If I allowed you

to return to her bitter hand;

body, mind, and spirit

would not quench the fight which stands.

You are the beginning of death,

the endless string unto pain,

and by the thread that binds

it is not you that will speak slain.

-God

Pause for Reflection:

• Have you ever imagined justice in ways that frightened you?

• Can you feel compassion for the part of you that only wanted freedom?

• What would it mean to welcome that part of yourself, not with shame, but with gentleness?

  
  

Place a hand on your belly. Breathe deeply into that space. Let the fire soften, not disappear, but transform.

Compassion for the One Who Couldn’t Run

What happened at eight wasn’t just a story of violence or imagination; it was a story of a soul trying to survive. What I felt then doesn’t define me now, but I no longer banish it to the dark. I hold that girl with gentleness. I see her rage, her fear, and her longing for power in a powerless world.

The Psalms taught me that this cry belongs to the holy conversation. Psalmists do not edit their pain. They cry out, “How long, O Lord?” They ask for justice. They beg for the wicked to fall. And still, they return to the promise: God hears. God heals.

To you who read this, if you carry secret fires of anger or dreams you’ve never dared voice, know that you are not monstrous. You are human. And healing includes even these. Especially these.

Let us be brave enough to speak what once had no words. Let us be tender enough to stay when others run. Let us believe in a God who does not recoil at our wounds, but draws near.

Even this. Even you. Even me.

-Kimi

-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.