Sneak Peek: No One Heard Her

Sneak Peek Part III: No One Heard Her. This story was inspired by (and answers the question of) the Casting Crowns' song: "Does Anybody Hear Her?" I hope you enjoy it.

NO ONE HEARD HER

The dead tell no tales only because we close our ears to their cries.

 

The months after Nikki Powers' death were certainly the hardest in my young pastoral career. I say that not to complain: as the son of a pastor, I knew that ministering to a congregation was more than baptisms and communion. But what struck me most were not the questions of death and life after and what could have been done to prevent it -- those I had anticipated. What struck me instead was the story of young Nikki that unfolded one cold December day, six months to the day after her car had plunged over a cliff into the lake outside of town.

The first part of the story was related to me shortly after 9. I had left my office to go downstairs and grab a cup of coffee, and I was reminding my secretary of a few things when an elderly woman approached me coming down the hall.

"Good morning," I said cheerily, raising my mug of coffee in salutation. "How are you today?"

The woman did not reflect my cheer. "May I speak with you, Pastor?” she said. “In your office?"

"Of course," I said, and showed her the way. After I had closed the door behind her, and we had taken seats, she began.

"My name is Marjorie Holcomb," she said. "I can imagine you wonder why I'm here, Pastor Martincic; on this day, particularly."

I pursed my lips for a second. Though our congregation was not small, I knew the greater majority of my flock. Marjorie -- though I recognized she attended -- escaped me.

"The young girl who died six months ago?" she prodded.

Of course, I thought to myself. Today is the 9th, isn't it? "Did you know Nicolette Powers?" I asked.

She shook her head. "No, no not really. Which is what I came to talk to you about." She glanced down at her hands folded on her lap, then back up at me. "She came to our church -- the church I used to attend -- the Sunday she died."

I raised my eyebrows. "Did she?" I asked. I had not known that; I did know for the three or four Sundays before her death, she had stopped attending ours.

Mrs. Holcomb nodded, and glanced down at her hands once more. "That's why I started coming here after -- after I heard the news. Ours is an old church; everyone there has been there since they were children, and their children and grandchildren attend...everyone knows everyone, and everything about everyone." She shook her head and sighed. "So when her prayer was announced, everyone knew who it was."

"I'm sorry," I interrupted. "Her prayer?" I knew what she had needed prayer for; I couldn't imagine she had actually told a foreign congregation.

"She needed strength, because she was pregnant and didn't know how to tell her boyfriend," Mrs. Holcomb replied. She paused, glancing away before answering my silent question. "I think she didn't realize our prayer cards were read aloud after they were collected. I was sitting next to her. That poor little girl; I had never seen someone so mortified. I'm ashamed to say we didn't react the way we should have, Pastor," she continued, looking at me once more. "I was the worst, because I was sitting beside her. I laid a hand on her arm as if I cared; but she saw through it and pulled away. I guess the masks we wear only fool ourselves, sometimes."

"Hmm," was all I could think to respond.

"Yes. Well. After I heard the news of what happened, I left that church. We were too comfortable; we all had our ideas of what salvation meant. The worst part is, even after we heard what happened, many of the congregation rationalized it away. A lot of us clung to the idea that it wasn't suicide. But even if it wasn't, it doesn't forgive the way we treated that poor, confused young girl."

"So you decided to attend our church at that point?" I asked.

"Yes. I don't know exactly why. Maybe it's some sort of penance for me. But it's not that either. I've wanted to tell her parents, and I just haven't been able to yet. But I had to tell someone today." She paused, and her breath caught for a moment. "Do you think God has forgiven me?"

"First John tells us if we confess our sins, God is faithful and just to forgive us," I said. "You have confessed to me; if you have confessed to God, then He has forgiven you."

"Thank you, Pastor," Mrs. Holcomb replied.

"Do you mind if I pray for us?"

"Please, thank you," she said with a small smile.

After she had gone, I sat brooding over my cup of coffee. After six months, the pain of Nikki's loss had begun to fade, even from my mind. I didn't like it being brought back, especially under such a revelation. One question that had remained in my mind, though I distracted myself often in helping others try to cope, was why she had fled from our church. Though that question remained unanswered, it was made more painful by knowing she had tried to go somewhere else.

Reaching for the phone, I dialed a number I had memorized through use. It rang twice before it was answered.

"Mrs. Powers," I told the voice at the other end. "Pastor Martincic."

There was a sigh. "I suppose I should have anticipated this call," Nikki's mother, Catherine, replied.


On Monday we'll look at story #4 of the anthology: "Casualties of Wars", a story reminding us that those who fight are not the only ones who might be wounded. Don't forget to go here if you want to read all of it now, and thank you! Or stop back for the next preview.