Mom’s stash of Avon sample lipstick was stored in the top drawer to the right of the sink in the only bathroom of my childhood home. Various shades were available, all in the classic white casing. I don’t remember who her dealer was or how she amassed such a collection. I do remember the drawer held a gazillion of these little lipsticks.
On this day I was about eight years old. We were leaving for vacation to spend the week with our best friends on the Oregon Coast. Plenty of adventures awaited us and I was making the last trip to the bathroom before going to the car where dad was patiently waiting for us.
As I hovered around the sink I saw the opened drawer filled with the Avon lipsticks. They never called to me before, but they did that day. Their cry was loud and clear, motivating me to reach into the draw to remove one. Opening the lid, I stared at the reddish-pink color of ink before me. As if caught up in a trance, I opened the white cabinet door behind me. I took the lipstick and marked a squiggly line down the door’s framing edge. Standing back to admire my work, the reddish-pink color on the white background popped. It was almost like Christmas lights sparkling in the snow. I put the lid back on the lipstick and returned it to the drawer, then headed out to the car where I awaited the next adventure.
I didn’t have to wait long.
I was sitting next to my sister behind the driver’s seat when mom came and got into the car. Her face was fiery red with smoke fuming from her ears; she was about to blow and someone was gonna “get it.” It just wasn’t going to be me.
With the precision of a laser guided missile, she zeroed in on my sister and unloaded her payload for the sin I committed. Deanna did her best at denial by claiming innocence and ignorance.
Mom turned a deaf ear.
I remained silent and stayed clear of the fallout.
The more Deanna denied guilt, the stronger mom accused her of wrongdoing. Mom’s final argument was more than a simple shot across the bow, “Do you think one of your brothers would do this?”
I turned my head, raised my eyebrows and look out the window.
I’ve had some forty-five years to reflect on that incident. I wouldn’t say I feel a lot of guilt from what I did, in part because I was a child. Children do things they either regret or laugh about as adult. Deanna and I have laughed about this many times.
But there may be a couple of insights worth noting about this “writing on the wall.” First, never remain silent when you’re called to speak. We witness someone being bullied and turn away. We see the injured and refuse to help. We watch the poor and turn a blind eye. We know someone is making bad life decisions but choose not to intervene. While history’s voice is filled with the silence of those watching the unjust act, Scripture reminds us otherwise.
Speak up for those who cannot speak for themselves, for the rights of all who are destitute. Speak up and judge fairly; defend the rights of the poor and needy (Prov. 31:8-9).
Secondly, never allow the innocent to be punished for the actions of the guilty. Time and time again stories emerge where the people know who committed the crime or the sin, but remain silent. Maybe they fear those in power or maybe they fear the majority. Maybe apathy has choked their voice. Either way, justice is perverted. Truth is lost. The guilty, going unpunished, thrive without anyone to challenge them.
I should have owned up to my deed. I ought to have said, “Mom, I vandalized the cabinet,” and then accepted the consequences.
While the writing may not always be on the wall, the sound of our silence will be loud and clear to God. I’m pretty sure that we’ll encounter a moment when someone’s voice needs to speak and be heard in the silence. Let’s make sure it’s ours.
Soli Deo Gloria!
(i.e. only God is glorified!)
By the way, if you still feel bad for my sister about taking the punishment for my sin and silence, then ask her about the cantaloupe.