Part V · Reclamation
Sanctified Silence
They told me to bow my head,
but never taught me how to raise it.
I was raised in pews and pulpits,
where manhood was measured
by silence, provision,
and how well we carried
what no one else would touch.
They taught me Christ wept once—
but never often.
That men bend until the world is rebuilt
on their backs.
So I did.
Until I cracked.
She broke me in secret.
And the church stayed silent.
“A woman can’t abuse a man,” they said.
“Pray harder.”
“Be patient.”
“God hates divorce.”
But said nothing
about bruises.
I showed them my throat—her hands.
My ribs—her rage.
My mind—her silence,
her gospel of blame.
They saw the bruises
and asked what I did
to deserve them.
She said I was the abuser.
They believed her—
because she smiled louder than I cried.
I tried to speak in their language—
Scripture, testimony, grace.
They gave me coffee and condescension.
A verse, not protection.
Told me to lead her back to Christ—
but how do you lead someone
who’s already crucified you?
I was baptized in shame,
anointed in silence,
told that love meant suffering.
That her fists were thorns.
Her betrayal, a test.
That pain would make me holy.
No one said
it’s okay to leave.
That peace doesn’t come
from staying.
That God doesn’t want you to die
on the cross she built.
The night she strangled me,
I saw God—
not in her eyes,
but in the mirror,
where I barely recognized
the frightened man staring back.
I was a husband,
a father,
a believer.
And they left me for dead.
And still—
I pray.
Not for her redemption,
but for mine.
Not for answers,
but for quiet.
Not for her,
but for the man I’m still becoming.