The Diary In The Attic (Part 6)

[Timl1980]

Part 6: The Streets in Turmoil

 

Sometimes the loudest battles aren’t in the streets but in the silence of your own body.

 

By mid‑October, Anna’s strength was slipping faster. She could still make it down the stairs most mornings, but her legs trembled by the time she reached the kitchen. Her mother had started leaving a chair by the counter so she could sit while pouring cereal.

 

Outside, the protests came and went like storms...sometimes loud and chaotic, sometimes fading into silence. But inside the house, the real storm was quieter: the way her mother's eyes lingered on her when she thought she wasn’t looking, the way her father's voice caught when he prayed at the dinner table.

 

Anna tried to ignore it, but she felt it pressing in.

 

She hadn’t been to school in a week, but when she finally returned, the halls felt different. Flyers about the next march were plastered everywhere, but that wasn’t what stung. What stung was the way people looked at her...some with pity, some with discomfort, some pretending not to see her at all.

 

At lunch, she carried her tray to a table and sat down. Within minutes, the girls she used to sit with gathered their things and moved to another table. They weren’t cruel...they just didn’t know what to say anymore.

 

Anna stared at her untouched food. The cafeteria noise blurred into a dull roar. She pulled the diary from her bag, even though it was finished, and laid her hand on the cover.

 

Stand firm.

 

A shadow fell across the table.

 

Daniel slid into the seat across from her, setting down his tray with a sigh.

 

“You look like you’re about to disappear,” he said, not unkindly.

 

Anna gave a weak smile. “Feels like it some days.”

 

He pushed his food around with his fork. “I hate how people look at me like I’m fragile. Like I’m not even me anymore, just…my disease. Do they look at you that way too?”

 

Anna nodded slowly. “All the time.”

 

His eyes darkened. “And then there are the people who say, ‘God has a plan.’ Like that’s supposed to make it better. If there’s a God, why would his plan be this?” He gestured at himself, then at her scarf. “Why would he let us suffer like this?”

 

Anna’s heart clenched.

 

A dozen scriptures rose to her lips...promises she had leaned on, words that had carried her through nights of pain.

 

She wanted to tell him. She wanted to remind him that Jehovah never causes suffering, that he promises to end it.

 

But she remembered the last time she had tried. The way his face had hardened, the way he had walked away.

 

So she stayed quiet.

 

Instead, she laid her hand on the diary resting on the table and whispered, almost to herself, “It won’t always be this way.”

 

Daniel studied her, his expression unreadable. “I wish I could believe that,” he said at last.

 

For a moment, the cafeteria noise faded. It was just the two of them, two broken bodies trying to hold themselves together, one clinging to faith, the other pushing it away.

 

That evening, Anna logged into the midweek meeting from her bed. Her body was too weak to go in person. She listened as brothers and sisters gave comments, their voices warm and encouraging.

 

When it was her turn, she unmuted her mic and read a scripture from Isaiah about Jehovah carrying his people even in old age and weakness. Her voice shook, but when she finished, the elder conducting the Treasure's part said, “Thank you, Anna. That was exactly what we needed tonight.”

 

She muted herself quickly, tears slipping down her cheeks. She didn’t feel strong. She didn’t feel like an example. But maybe, just maybe, Jehovah could use her anyway.

 

Later that night, she lay awake, her body aching from the long day. Outside, the faint echo of another protest drifted through the window.

 

She whispered into the dark: “Jehovah, I don’t know how much longer I can do this. Please…help me stand firm.”

 

And for the first time, she wondered if her endurance would run out before the end came...or if Jehovah would carry her the rest of the way.