Missing Voices

There’s a silence lingering upon the air. Those who once drew Breath now have still chests and empty eyes. Dimness surrounds their form, as though I’m looking at their reflection on a still bayou, muddied and colorless, under the coverage of willows.

I feel this numbness in my chest at the thought that I’ll never again hear their voices alight with passion. I’ll never hear her banging on the piano keys and belting a ragged song of praise. I’ll never hear him stirring young hearts to the vivacity and mystery found in a life of faith. I’ll never hear her prophesying both sweet and bitter things to aching, despaired, and wandering hearts. I’ll never hear her painting icons through poetry through which we could see into heaven. I’ll never see her dancing with a radiant face and jubilant feet bounding across the linoleum. I’ll never hear his words of adoration spilt out at the foot of the cross. His rallying cries which lifted the hearts of his brothers and sisters. His sweet, kind smile which invited you into the simplicity of Jesus’ fellowship.

All these seem to fade with the setting of the sun. I wonder now if they were ever even real memories in the first place. They seem so cold and monumental now.

The way of battle claims the youngest of lives, and Christians learn to mourn early. I’ll never forget my first heartbreak of watching the life escape from the lips of a brother. Indeed, I hardly knew him, but I watched as little by little the hope fell from his shoulders and the cynicism set in as a heavy yoke. I can’t remember if I wept. I do remember his name.

And so many since have joined the list beside his, erasing themselves from the Book of Life, falling into unremembrance. No matter how vast the list becomes, I’ll never get used to that pain in the heart which feels less like a knife plunged into your chest and more like the space cut by the knife which was never thrust in the first place. Somehow the wound was always there, and yet you can remember a time in which it seemed not to be present. No, it’s not even like a wound reopening every time a name falls from the lips of the angels. It’s more like the morphine wears off for a time and you realize how much pain you’ve been in, how much your flesh aches from the tear. When you, beloved one, are dealt a blow, I also am stricken by it.

How much more, when you succumb to its wound, am I affected by your fatality!

“If one member suffers, all suffer together with it; if one member is honored, all rejoice together with it.” 1 Corinthians 12:26

About the Author:

Carly is a Wesley Foundation Alumnus who now attends Duke Divinity School in the hope of pastoring her own church someday. She is a fiercely faithful individual, with laughter that lights up a room and a quirky sense of humor.