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Who Knows About Jamie?
by Sarah Mursell
10/11/06
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Jamie was twelve years old.

Jamie could read, write, smile and run.

But Jamie never spoke.

His parents and doctors could not fathom any reasonable explanation for it. Was he simply mute? There were no apparent psychological problems or past traumas to excuse it, and although it was a problem, it didn't seem to be hurting either Jamie or his parents, so the doctors had time to ponder and search for answers and remedies.

He was certainly not starved of family love. His father, in particular, had lots of time for Jamie, and a strong belief that Jamie could talk, but just that something wasn't connecting; boyhood, growing up pains- harmless fears- nothing to get too worked up about. Being determined and loving, he would never tire of dreaming up and trying different methods to encourage his only son. Often, he would suggest that writing his thoughts and feelings down would be a fine idea.

But Jamie never did.

One predictable (or was it) day, Jamie and his father were drinking tea in front of the television.

News suddenly interrupted the cowboy film, causing Jamie's father to sit up straight from the lazy, and semi conscious doze he had been in.

It was terrible news of a recent bombing somewhere out in the east.

Scenes from the tragedy came on, of people running from their burning homes, and screaming children, now motherless, and homeless, with true, and raw fear for their little lives-a sudden maturity in their eyes which had no right to be there at such a young age.

Jamie's father shuddered, feeling disturbed, weary and hungry- all at once,( when will dinner be ready, mother?)and craned his head around to look at his wordless son, always hoping to see a glimmer of a reaction or feeling in those far away eyes- anything that might give him a clue of his point of view on the matter- any matter toward worldly business; nobody even knew Jamie's favourite colour-( does he really like fish, or just pretend to?)

Jamie simply hung his head, and stared down at the carpet blankly.

“Er, look... son, why don't you just try and write something down, eh? How you feel, i mean. You can write can't you? You want to be like everyone else don't you? Get a good job and a house? I mean, this is what life is all about Jamie, and you really should be......”

Jamie was already leaving the room, calmly and silently as always, but with a pencil and his jotter pad he used to work out his math homework.

Jamie walked slowly out the back door, and floated over towards a large weeping willow, sat underneath it, and began to write.


For seven weeks, police and family searched in vain for missing Jamie. His father- devastated to the point of a breakdown, was advised to stay home and rest, despite his reluctance.

On the final day of the seventh week, pages of the notebook were found, caught up in a bush of thorns.

The words read, “The reason i do not speak, is because i just have nothing to say. What can i say about the world-what do you want to know?Wars, and people killing each other and hating their brother-why do you even want to know how i feel about it? A world that teaches us to believe that to get a job, money, a house, and more money, is all there is to life?I do talk, and when i do, i talk to Jesus, who is the only one worth talking to, because he listens, and tells me the truth. But despite Him warning me not to, i have gone away for good, and you'll never find me- alive or dead. So long and so be it. J.

Jamie has never been found.

Can you figure out where he is?


If you died today, are you absolutely certain that you would go to heaven? You can be! TRUST JESUS NOW

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