Today, I was standing in the kitchen waiting for my mug of Honeycrisp cider to heat up. One minute and thirty seconds left. Two of my roommates are sitting at the table bickering about something trivial. They’re throwing around names of characters–this evening’s argument must be about a show that they’ve been watching. The basement door opens, and my third roommate walks through, rolling her eyes and quietly laughing at the scene. One minute and twenty seconds left. One roommate holds up her hand as if she’s annoucing the winner of the election (too soon?), and spouts off some fact. My other roommate slams her phone down on the table and lets out an uncomprehendable exclamation. My heart jumps, and I feel my breathing become erratic. It’s just your roommate. She won’t do anything, I try to convince myself. One minute and ten seconds left. I breathe in through my mouth and out through my nose. Wait, maybe it is the other way around. . . in through the nose and out through. . . My thought races from me as my roommate’s shouting increases. I try to focus on the microwave’s timer and twirl a strand of my hair as if I’m not worried at all. One minute and five seconds. She lifts up her cup and brings her arm back past her head. My breathing catches, and I notice the now detached hair in my hand. I force my hand to let it go, and it drops to the floor. One minute and three seconds. Her arm rushes forward, and her hand releases the cup. My eyes squeeze shut, and I feel as if I am in one of those snow suits where you can hardly move or feel anything. Despite the numbness that has taken over, my body tenses in preparation for the piercing pain that never comes. The cup clatters to floor near my feet. One minute and one second.
With every nerve vibrating inside of me and my mind firing as if I had just avoided a near motor-vehicle crash, I make my way to the table and sit down with them. I am smiling, but if they were to look closer, they’d see that my lips are twitching. Within me, the needles are weaving the strings all about, trying to repair the torn threads that connect me with my roommates. I wish it were as easy to unravel the fifteen years of abuse as it is to unravel trust. The microwave beeps five times, but I don’t hear it–I’m listening to God’s whisper of truth. Right now, I am really grateful for His whisper.
