Venerating Voided Voices

Who knows the value of a voided voice? Who fathoms the force of intention undone? We morn, we vent, we call up to the spirits…WHY. Is our worth measured in the script led commentaries of pressured journalists when we have died spectacularly? No, it is not. I would argue that the tenuously coherent calls of desperately mourning mothers and fathers send instant messages of forlorn agony in quiet solitude that eclipses the flashy video fed bathos of the lazy frenzy of our airwaves.

What does it take to raise-up a wonderful mind, soul, person of contribution? Though I have never lost a child, I have thought to consider what would be lost, had I. Consider this:

I remember when Joshie—just four—asked me what the children’s aspirin was
called. I quickly informed him in my motherly way, that he would not be able to
pronounce it. He said, “I want to try, Mommy!” So I said, “Acetaminophen.” And
he said, “I know how to pronounce that, Mommy! I see the medicine!”

A moment in time you say; a mere anecdote? No—this is the essence of love. This is a power lost to those who have not experienced the nurture of a child and the joy of their simple wonder.

What about that pictures parents have of their Sugar Bear with chocolate all over her face from licking the batter out of a bowl that she helped you make a special birthday cake with? My argument is… that moment is sacred, magic, and contains more power than any nuclear blast. Do you want to argue against that? I dare you. You will fail. You will go down with all of the other thoughtless murderers who senselessly extinguish the voices of the beloved.

How can there be power in the chocolate smudged face of a child, in the memory of the toddler in poopie pants, in that embarrassing pantless picture of them with cowboy boots and a tank-top? What about the poem written as tears streamed down that mother’s face as she realized she was not her child’s valentine anymore?

When I was 16 I remember listening to the rock opera, Jesus Christ Superstar. I was lost, unsettled, and confused by my world. I listened to the lyrics of that opera over and over again; memorizing every single word of the opera. At one point in the opera Simon beseeches Jesus to overthrow the Romans who rule over the Jews. He argues that with His popularity he could take over. This was Jesus’ response:

Neither you Simon, nor the 50,000, nor the Romans, nor the Jews, nor Judas nor the twelve, nor the priests nor the scribes, nor doomed Jerusalem itself…understand what power is…understand what glory is…understand at all…understand at all.

I assert the ethos of this brilliant work for it aptly defines the haze through which murderers gaze—the nebulous lens of perceived personal power. Never underestimate the gravity of those mourning. Though theirs is an unrighteous loss, which imposes itself through the memories of a myriad of monumental moments, they will venerate those voices evil sought to void. Why do you think there are those who would prefer we forget—forget the tragedies of our loss? And why do you think there are those who would prefer we never knew—never knew the tragedies of our loss? I posit their choice is one intended to neutralize the power of our voices—the voices they seek to void. I ask you why? Why do they not want us to know the cost of life lost? It is the power, the power they are afraid of, the power of the loved.

Beware of fear—fear and hatred—for it is fear and hatred that feed the nebulous lens of perceived power. And it is fear and hatred that implode upon the psychology of the deceived. They are the tentacles that wrap around an innocent heart, becoming the parasitical nutrient for humanity’s throbbing evil. But you say, “Haven’t there been righteous wars and righteous deaths?” And I say yes, there have. These wars and these deaths have been in defense, defending those we love fearlessly. It is true that the soldier feels fear, it is true that the soldier hates war. However I would argue that the righteous soldier is one motivated by love, love for loved ones and love for country. As the line is thin between oil and water, so is the line between hatred and love, for they are mutually exclusive—therefore we must guard our hearts against the blending influences of hostility, for they mix our emotions, swirl our principles, and emulsify our purpose. And it takes time to settle—settle the turbulent waters of war.

But it is beyond the purpose of this humble rhetorical moment to sort out the manner and purpose of humanity’s blunders. My intent is to share my perspective that the love of lives lost has more momentum than blasts of metal, and if we are to be the ambassadors of peace we must remember to venerate not only the voices of our beloved lost, but to venerate the voices of all innocence lost to injustice. We must tell our stories, write our history, voice our heartfelt pain, honor the future moments lost by telling the truth; for I believe that it is the truth that truly venerates, by bringing to life our beloved voices that they could not void.