“Where were you when I was burned and broken? While the days slipped by from my window, watching. And where were you when I was hurt and I was helpless? ‘Cause the things you say and the things you do surround me.”
Good afternoon. I want you to feel that echo in your bones—that plea for presence when every promise rings hollow. Today we’re peeling back the curtains on abandonment and divine rescue, on human failure and the power greater than any earthly force. Picture 1973. A twelve-year-old me, alone in a dim room, windows shut against questions I dared not ask out loud. My parents, convinced by outside forces, believed the labels whispered by narcissists in 1958. In their eyes, I was already “that child”—broken before I had a chance to stand. Being labeled a troublemaker or fragile changes everything. When you’re “already” what they say, no one looks deeper for the light. I felt their faith in gossip—an outside verdict—crushing my own spark before it even flared. Every attempt to prove otherwise felt futile.
Belief in rumors replaced belief in me. Those early judgments hardened into walls around my innocence.
Introduced to Destruction
While you were hanging yourself on someone else’s words, dying to believe in what you heard, I was handed drugs and alcohol as if they were rescue tools. Outside forces aimed to quell my God-given light, snuffing dreams with every sip, every pill. My enemies came from outside my family. Each infiltrated to destroy the very fabric of the Grein / Edelmann legacy.
I got lost in thought and lost in time—searching for relief, missing the seeds of life and seeds of change being planted around me. Outside, the rain fell dark and slow while I pondered this dangerous but irresistible pastime: the ache of absence, the seduction of despair. Yet even in that storm, tiny shoots of resilience took root. A whisper in prayer I nearly dismissed as wishful thinking. A kind stranger’s nod at school. A book that spoke of hope. These were not coincidences—they were sacred breadcrumbs, scattered by grace.
Absence isn’t just a missing person—it’s a silent verdict that I don’t matter.
- Physical absence: footsteps down the hall that never stopped.
- Emotional absence: looks that refused to meet your eyes.
- Spiritual absence: prayers you thought went unanswered.
Each form of absence deepened the wound, but each wound held an unspoken question: Who will choose to stay? Who will witness me when I can no longer witness myself?
The Spiritual Vacuum and the First Cry In my darkest hours, I cried out: “God, if you’re here, show me.” I expected thunder, but found only a still, small voice. That gentle nudge became the fulcrum for my broken spirit. It didn’t erase the betrayal of silence, but it pierced it. The silence wasn’t empty—it was sacred space waiting to be filled with truth.
At 33 years, God had had enough. My seventh suicide attempt was interrupted by His insistence—a person I hadn’t spoken to in months suddenly called. I hadn’t answered the phone in ages, but that night, I did. And that call saved my life. Not because of what was said, but because it was sent. A divine dispatch. A holy interruption.
One night, surrendering to tears, I felt a warm assurance settle over me. No power on earth could breathe life back into my shattered self—but a divine power did. Strangers became instruments of a grace I couldn’t fully explain. Fear dissolved into calm. Dreams shifted from escape to purpose. The sacred truth wasn’t in the thunder—it was in the quiet persistence of love.
Truth-Seeking in the Aftermath I began to see that sacred truth isn’t always loud. It doesn’t always arrive with clarity or conviction. Sometimes it comes as a flicker—a moment of stillness, a breath that doesn’t feel stolen. Sometimes it’s the ache itself that points to something holy: the longing for connection, the hunger for meaning, the refusal to let despair have the final word.
I was not abandoned. I was being refined. I was not forgotten. I was being remembered by God. I was not broken beyond repair. I was being broken open.
And in that opening, I found the seeds I had missed. Seeds of life. Seeds of change. Seeds of sacred truth, planted in the soil of suffering, watered by tears, and warmed by the quiet sun of divine presence.
The Cost of Silence and Stigma: Let me share two moments of earthly grace:
A coach who, instead of scolding, said, “Hit the ball like you’re hitting your doubts.” A neighbor who slipped a cup of tea under my door with no questions asked. In those small acts, I tasted the courage to hope again. On the tennis court, every serve became a prayer. Each rally, a declaration that my story didn’t end in ashes. Compassion opened doors for divine intervention, and faith propelled me forward on shaky legs. Broken pieces became the foundation for something greater. Pain showed me I was alive. Grace taught me to give others the space to live. To weave human kindness with divine guidance, adopt three practices: Honest Lament in Safe Spaces: Name your darkness aloud, inviting light to pour in. Active Listening with a Prayerful Heart: Pray for insight before you respond. Consistent Check-Ins Anchored in Grace: A text, a call, a whisper of prayer can shift a life. Building Communities of Rescue: We’re stronger together. Let’s commit to: Creating listening rooms where judgment sleeps and empathy wakes. Hosting faith-infused storytelling nights that tear down stigma. Partnering with outreach ministries that meet needs both seen and unseen. When compassion meets conviction, no heart remains broken for long.
Your Invitation to Act: I challenge you today to:
- Identify one person you’ve left in the margins and reach out.
- Volunteer your time or talent, inviting divine direction as you serve.
- Share your own story—broken, rescued, and redeemed.
Your words might be the spark that sets another soul ablaze with hope.
Years later, I found my coach in a café. He pulled out a worn tennis ball with my name scrawled on it: “Remember who you are.” He’d kept it so I’d never forget that I matter. That simple act of faith and remembrance changed me forever.
“Where were you when I was burned and broken?” If you stood away, today is your invitation to step forward. Let your words and your faith surround someone who feels unseen. Be the echo to their question, the presence they crave, and the grace that gives life back to the broken.
James Grein
“I took a heavenly ride through our silence. I knew the moment had arrived, For killing the past and coming back to life“
🌧️ Outside, the rain fell dark and slow Each drop a memory, each gust a sigh— The sky wept for what I couldn’t name. I sat still, tangled in thought, Drawn again to this dangerous but irresistible pastime: The quiet unraveling of everything I once believed. A ritual of longing. A meditation on absence.
🌌 I took a heavenly ride through our silence Not the silence of peace, but the silence of distance— Of prayers unanswered, of love unspoken. Yet even in that void, something sacred stirred. I felt the pulse of eternity beneath the ache. I knew the moment had arrived: Not for escape, but for resurrection. For killing the past and coming back to life. Not as I was, but as I was meant to be.
☀️ I took a heavenly ride through our silence And this time, I didn’t resist. I let the silence speak. I let it baptize me in truth. I knew the waiting had begun— Not passive, but holy. A gestation of grace. And I headed straight… into the shining sun. Not to be burned, but to be seen. Not to vanish, but to rise.
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