The Moment I Wished for Silence

Some moments in our story feel too heavy for words. And yet, they remain, seared into memory, burned into the body, buried deep within the soul. This post from The Us in Me brings us face-to-face with such a moment, a moment of trembling silence after explosive chaos.

To walk into this memory is to touch raw grief, rage, confusion, and the ache for justice. It is also to encounter the question so many survivors wrestle with: If I had known God, would I have prayed for death? And does that make me bad?

No. It makes you honest. It makes you human. And it makes your healing even more miraculous.

Dear God

Early this morning, I welcomed suicide. Years after desiring his death, I stepped outside to leave for school, a whisper of how I loved to escape that wretched house. The air outside concealed the filth within, a scream.

My mother? It’s funny how she finds her place in this story. I fondly see her sew me fanciful Halloween costumes. I watch her hands craft beautiful birthday cakes and flip grilled cheese. But I can never find her in this hell. She has no place. Will I ever be able to see her? A shadow dwells beneath a charade we will forever take part in. We toy with sweet thought characters like children. We often pretend that life is the final act of some fairy tale. That none of this ever happened.

Must I continue? Yes. I know I must. Because You and I, we don’t pretend.

I ran back inside. I don’t remember feeling panic, doubt, or even delay. My mother stood at the bottom of the stairs. She held all the emotions I could not. He was at the top, draped in nothing but a towel, pacing back and forth with that damn gun.

The gun I had already killed him with in my mind. A thousand times. Now he threatened to do it himself. If I had known You, I might’ve prayed for him to pull the trigger. And I’m not sure I’m even ashamed of that.

My mother screamed. And I couldn’t understand why. Did she want him alive? Was he kind to her? We never spoke of it, but she must have known about the beatings. The bruises made walking difficult. And the other wounds he left beneath the skin, no posture on earth could relieve them.

I looked up at him. I felt nothing but the desire for his end. He stormed back into the bedroom, yelling. I didn’t care what he said. I only hoped he meant it.

A gunshot rang out.

My mother collapsed in horror, tears streaming. She turned to me and begged me to leave.

I could see it then: she did not share my hatred. I obeyed.

As I climbed our steep driveway, I felt hatred.

Another gunshot.

Then another.

Then...

Silence.

– Pretending

Dear Pretending

What if a gun caught attention?

What if all her pain on that day ended?

What if she had heard my voice that moment?

Would it have been worth it?

Would it change the course of

the next day...

a week...

the year...

her life?

Would an explanation, an apology, ease any of her strife?

Does she hear Me?

Could she answer:

Your servant is listening, as I call her name?

What if I could remove all her shame?

Would she believe she was beautiful?

Would she begin to hear Me whispering?

What if I told her I want to listen to her voice?

Would she believe her story now unfolds by her choice?

Will she ever trust Me as a gentle guide in these words?

-God

Pause for Reflection

• Have you ever imagined a moment when someone else's end felt like your beginning?

• Can you offer compassion to the part of yourself that just wanted the pain to stop?

• What might it look like to let God into the places where silence followed chaos?

Place your hand over your heart.

Breathe in, “I am safe.”

Breathe out, “I am seen.”

Even this moment. Even this memory. Even this silence.

Where God Meets the Unspeakable

The Psalms are filled with cries like these: “Let the wicked perish... break the arm of the oppressor... How long, O Lord?” There is no shame in honest lament. No shame in rage. No shame in imagining an end to what feels unbearable.

What matters is that even in that place, God does not turn away.

He stays.

He listens.

He speaks.

Not to erase the pain, but to sit beside us in it.

Healing does not ignore what happened. It names it. It walks through it. And sometimes, it climbs a steep driveway in silence, waiting to breathe again.

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.