Being a Voice for the Voiceless

A personal essay by Talley Timms

“The human voice is the most perfect instrument of all” –Arvo Pärt

Last year, in preparation for an internship, I read a victim’s statement given by a ten-year-old girl who witnessed an argument between her father and stepmom escalate to the point of violence, ending in her father headbutting her stepmom and breaking her nose. What surprised me first about this victim’s statement was how careful the child was to protect her father, making excuses and minimizing the trauma, even though he clearly put her in a high-risk situation. What surprised me more was the obvious shame this child felt for events over which she had no control. But what surprised me most was how little I remembered of this witness statement considering that I was that ten-year-old girl.

Who's the Yarner

A personal essay by Bekah Luthi

Slide-hook-pull, slide-hook-pull, slide-hook-pull

One Friday night, my dad calls me to ask, “What are you up to?”

As I tidy up the living room, I tell him that I finished my homework only a half hour ago and decided to relax.

He disagrees. “It’s Friday night! Why aren’t you out? The night’s still young.”

“It’s eleven o’clock,” I remind him. He tends to forget about the time difference. “I’m tired. I just want to watch some TV and crochet for a bit before bed.”

“Crochet? Why would you do that?”

Like Mother, Like Daughter

A personal essay by Nina Anderson

For as long as I can remember, I have wanted to be exactly like my mom.

It was 6pm, closing time. It was already dark because that’s how life goes when it’s winter in Minnesota. Donna had left for the day so I needed to lock up the shop. I looked out the front window and saw Mom waiting in the Ford Focus. Right on time. I slipped on my coat, hat, gloves, scarf, and flicked off all the light switches. Mom crochets these beautiful mittens and matching scarves out of wool that keep us nice and warm.

The bells twinkled against the door as it shut behind me. The lock on the door requires some practice and often the patience of Job. The key is really small, so I had to expose my hands to the frigid air for a minute. You have to turn they key quickly and hold the door in exactly the right spot for the bolt to slide into place. 

Rebuilding from the Rubble

A personal essay by Clara Dunlop

Sometimes the greatest tragedies in life turn out to be our greatest blessings.

The phone rings.  “Hello?”
It’s my mission president. “Don’t worry, no one died”
“I’m putting your parents through right now”
I have so many questions. “What happened?”
Gone.
My mom confirms, “Are you sure you want to see that?”
“I just want to understand…”

In a daze, I leave the office that I had quarantined myself in. My companion, the girl with whom I solely co-exist, looks at me as if in pain, knowing she has the obligation to say something. She comes up with “I do not know what happened, but I hope you are okay.” Just this. We aren’t close enough for anything more. When I awoke, my eyes were inflamed. My friend embraces me as my eyes fill with tears yet again. And I say it out loud for the first time.

 “My house burned down.”

Bears and Cows and Alice! Oh My!

A personal essay by Melanie Henderson

Life is always exhausting and busy. But having Alice has helped us see that there is always room for fun and silliness. 

I slightly lift my eyelids. We both hear her. Her waking moans ooze through the crack in her door and spill into our room. My body is plastered against the cotton sheets. Like a hibernating bear, I refuse to move. It's not the right time; it's too early.
Connor, however, I suppose is the true mama bear as he lumbers to her room. On those mornings, he doesn't even ask me. He knows. He goes. He gets her.

When I'm the mover, I'm not as swift as Connor. I grudgingly creep to the crack—only wanting to drop down in bed and sleep for an extra two minutes. Before I push the door open, I wait. Maybe she will go back to sleep? Maybe she was just grumbling or playing in her sleep?

No...she's definitely awake.