Singing Through Fire by Lara Silverman

Chapter One ...

Everything  Going  As  Planned

October 2017, three months before the storm

Oh, that delectably sweet feeling when your dreams start lining up like loyal little ducks—blissfully unaware they have a choice. 

I reread the last paragraph on Janet’s desktop.

Three more times. 

My eyes glued to her screen as if my gaze alone could perfect the words. 

It’s 9 p.m., and Janet and I are the only ones left on the twelfth floor. She’s my legal secretary at “Stereotypical White Shoe Big Law Firm” in San Francisco, and we’re filing a consequential legal brief online in the big Claricaran intellectual property case. It’s my last week on the job, and I’m getting things tied up in pretty bows before I go. 

“Please put an extra space after the citation in footnote five. It’s missing one.” “You got it.” Janet knows the drill. This isn’t our first rodeo. 

“Okay, we’re ready. Hit file, Janet!” 

Ten seconds later, I hug Janet like I’m accepting an Oscar, bowing dramatically and announcing in a fake British accent, “I’d like to thank my secretary Janet, my overpriced law degree, the inventor of espresso shots, and of course, the unsung hero: my ergonomic chair.”  

Then I cackle.

Near maniacally.

Janet giggles. “I’ll miss you, Lara. Congrats on the new gig. But please, don’t do that evil laugh thing again. Terrifies me every time.” (I played an insane woman named “Mad Margaret” in a British operetta years ago, and liked the role maybe a little too much. Insanity can be a useful tactic—on occasion.)

The hollow echo of my black heels clicks against the floor as I walk back to my office through the dark hallway past empty offices. That’s a wrap. I’ve got to catch the next metro. 

I clean my disheveled desk, pull on my dressy black suit jacket over my blue satin blouse, grab my briefcase, and skip out of the shiny office doors. I cruise down the elevator and step outside the Embarcadero Building into the city’s hustle and bustle. There’s a signature, hurried “Lara bounce” in my step as I tap into the city’s palpable energy and head to my favorite corner shop. 

I love this feeling. The honking cabs, the smell of chestnuts from the corner vendor, the crisp autumn air mingling with the salty breeze from the bay. Fall has always been my favorite season. 

Would my humble Armenian immigrant parents—who used to run a little “mom and pop” pharmacy—have ever imagined that their daughter would be a high-powered lawyer with her own secretary in her late twenties? With an ocean view office? Jetting around the country speaking at legal conventions? And actually loving it—stress and all? Thank you, Lord Jesus, for granting me my career dreams. 

I’ve wanted to be a lawyer since kindergarten—when obnoxious little Lara, armed with apparently too much confidence and a box of Crayolas, drew herself in a black judicial robe like some kind of toddler Judge Judy. The other kids were drawing astronauts and princesses, but there I was, ready to argue over nap time regulations.

 As I step into the corner coffee shop now, the rich aroma of cinnamon and the sharp bite of burned espresso immediately envelop my senses. I order my usual—a pumpkin spice latte and artisan chocolate bar—and rush toward the metro. 

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A few minutes later, the metro train hums beneath me, the rhythmic clatter of steel-on-steel filling the near-empty car. A teenager slouches in the corner, hood pulled low, head bobbing to the bass line leaking from his earbuds. Across from me, a businessman types furiously. As I sip my latte, letting the warmth seep into my hands, the inevitable question creeps in—Are these late nights really worth it? 

Absolutely. 

Why? 

I genuinely love the thrill of channeling my energy into something meaningful. 

A well-argued debate? I’m in. 

A legal brief honed to perfection? Sign me up. 

Acting on stage? Pure adrenaline. 

Whatever the arena, I love turning passion into performance and power. Don’t we all?

Let me rewind a bit. The moment five-year-old “me” learned that stickers were a gateway drug to achievement, I started chasing gold stars. Type A. Perfectionist. Control freak. For better or worse—and probably for the worse. 

Exhibit A: crying and questioning the reason for my existence at age ten after my two-second church solo—because my voice allegedly didn’t “sound good.” I guess my wobbly soprano wasn’t exactly giving Mariah Carey.

Exhibit B: crying for days after being named “Salutatorian” in high school, because second place? A Shakespearean tragedy to my seventeen-year-old mercilessly self-critical self. Not good enough. 

By the end of college, my relationship with “success” was still borderline pathological. When Stanford Law rejected me despite my sweat-earned 3.99 grade point average, my mature inner monologue at the time: I’ll show you bimbos. I marched into UCLA Law, spent the year revenge-studying, ranked first place in the first year class, and promptly reapplied to Stanford Law to prove my point. You know, to join the other “bimbos.” (Others seek therapy for inner turmoil. I, apparently, seek vengeance.)

Stanford accepted me—which made sense to me. That’s how life works, Lara, I thought at the time. Work hard and God will ultimately bless you. God blesses those He loves. Worth comes from success. Proverbs 13:4 says, “A sluggard’s appetite is never filled, but the desires of the diligent are fully satisfied.” 

Clearly, I had a “healthy” relationship with success back then. I’m no psychotherapist and don’t know where this drive came from—only that it was there.

Now?  

I plead the fifth.

As the metro murmurs through a tunnel, I take a bite of my chocolate bar while my fingers absently trace the Armenian cross at my neck—the one my mother fastened around my neck at graduation. It’s more than jewelry. It’s history. 

Perhaps what nags me subconsciously is the belief that my maternal grandfather—a hardworking Christian reverend who miraculously escaped the Armenian Genocide—didn’t do all that so grandkid number eight would be a slacker.

Let me tell you something about Armenians. There aren’t many of us. We’re a people born in sorrow. The first nation to embrace Christianity, yet cursed by geography. Over the centuries, we’ve been trampled by empires—the Byzantines, Persians, Russians, Turks. And during World War I, the Ottoman Turks tried to erase us entirely. The Armenian Genocide. 

That’s why we stick together. Success, to us, isn’t just about achievement. It’s redemption. It’s not just generic old-world propriety that fuels our need to marry Armenian, thrive in our careers, and build strong families. It’s something deeper, stitched into our blood. We don’t want to just survive. We want to thrive—because our ancestors were supposed to vanish. My existence is a miracle if you consider how the Turks spared my dad’s great-grandfather’s family as well, because they wanted to utilize their rare skill in horse saddle-making—a trade too useful to erase.

And then there are my parents. They fled a war in Lebanon and sacrificed everything so I could have the so-called “good life” in America. They’re surprisingly “chill” for Armenian parents, but the unspoken lesson has always been clear nonetheless: earthly blessings—i.e., the “perfect” Armenian life—equals happiness. Work hard, marry well, raise babies, grill kebab on Sundays after church, honor your Armenian past, then die. 

That’s the formula for joy. I’m all in. 

The train finally screeches into Millbrae station, and I step out onto the platform into the still night air, the cold biting through my suit jacket. 10:30 p.m. and not a soul in sight. 

My heartbeat quickens as I dart several blocks to my car, knowing my mom Grace is up waiting, worried sick. But this is corporate life. (I’ve been living at home in the suburbs with the folks for the last eight years. I’m lucky enough to love my retired parents’ company.) 

Thirty minutes later, I’m home and sprinting through the garage door into the family room. “Mom, I’m officially done with all my cases. Four days left!” 

Mom ties her night robe, hugs me tight, and kisses my left eye—her signature, tender way to say everything without a word. She looks at me with those deep brown almond-shaped eyes, thin lips, and button nose framed by soft brown wavy hair.

“Proud of you. But remember to rest. If you know how.” She rolls her eyes, flashes a playful smile, and heads to sleep. 

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I rush to my bedroom, slip into my cozy koala pajamas, and dive into bed. Nothing screams “peak adulthood” like fuzzy marsupials. Then, a silent prayer—Thank you Lord Jesus, for all Your blessings and this new job. I know You’ll help me thrive there. I love You. Amen. The prayer rolls off my tongue the way it has for years since that sweet old lady in Sunday School introduced me to Jesus and I accepted Him as my Savior—me and four other sugar-high seven year olds. So far, that Jesus guy had been good to me: a wonderful childhood, loving parents, my favorite mint chip ice cream on the regular, the occasional band-aid, and a sweet older sister named Sevan who was smart enough not to cross me. Who wouldn’t want eternal life like that?

And even up through today, faith has always felt somewhat like a simple transaction. If Jesus loves you, He’ll ultimately bless you. He just will. That’s been the evidence so far, anyway. 

Oh, except God’s one big indiscretion with Aunt Jackie. You know, the one my family shoves down, denies, and never discusses. 

The memory randomly seeps into my head now, like cold air through a cracked window, as I pull the covers up to my chin.  Aunt Jackie was a brilliant chemist. Loving. Faithful. Kind. 

But cancer didn’t care. 

Neither did God, I told myself, standing at her gravesite eight years ago at age twenty-one, fists clenched, shivering in a stiff black dress, and digging my heels into the damp, unsteady grass, just like my faith. Why are we all acting as if everything is okay and God has been fair and kind? 

Justice has always driven me. The need to balance scales. To call out the unfair. It’s why I chose law. But Aunt Jackie’s premature death at age fifty-four? 

Not fair. 

I press my face into my pillow now, exhaling hard. Don’t think about this. 

When Aunt Jackie died, my faith cracked—like a glass dropped onto concrete. The pieces were still there, but they would never fit the same way again. But punishing God ultimately felt easier than trying to understand why the good suffer. So, for six months, I waged silent rebellion against Jesus. No prayers, no church. No God to worship equals no one to get angry at. 

Right? 

Wrong. 

I couldn’t sustain it. I felt like something deep within me had broken. I knew God was real, as Jesus had revealed Himself to me through His Word in small but tangible ways up to that point. So one day, my sister’s question—“Are you gonna ignore God forever, Lars?”—stuck with me like a piece of gum on a hot sidewalk. (FYI: “Lars” is the affectionate nickname my family uses to manipulate me when they need to pacify me.) I went to church grudgingly that Sunday. As I sat in the pews, these words during Pastor Nerses’ sermon shook me: “Is there someone here today who has quit on God? God is saying ‘Don’t give up on Me.’” 

Coincidental timing, or Providence? I instantly knew the Holy Spirit was speaking directly to me, and I turned back to God in faith right there and then. I devoured theological books exploring reasons why God allows suffering, coming to some tentative “insights” that temporarily pacified me. I even joined a “Bible Study Fellowship” class when my friend Lisa and Auntie Nanor separately suggested it the same day out of the blue. (Again, chance or Jesus wooing me?) 

During the next few years, my faith really grew. I almost don’t recognize myself now at age twenty-nine compared to who I was at twenty-one. I’ve found Jesus to be a deeply personal God, one who doesn’t love me from a distance but wants an intimate relationship with me. 

But. All that notwithstanding. The bare bones truth is I’ve never “forgiven” Him for taking Aunt Jackie. 

And I fancy I never will. Where is Aunt Jackie, really? It’s one thing to read about Heaven in the Bible, but can we actually understand what it means that Heaven is a place of permanent joy and bliss? Nor have I ever really trusted God again. My trust looks more like, “Trust, but keep one eye open.”

I know what God is capable of, folks. That whole “surrender to His will” thing? That’s for the Bible’s “greats.” Think Job from the Old Testament—the poster child for trusting God amidst suffering.

Me? A lawyer trained to skeptically evaluate evidence and reach rational conclusions. Rational Conclusion No. 1 after Aunt Jackie’s death: God cannot be trusted. It’s one thing to believe Jesus died for my sins. It’s another to trust that He is good even when He allows intense suffering. 

But I admit. I’m still curious. God tested that Job dude up the wazoo, allowing evil forces to kill all of Job’s children, wealth, and health, yet Job still had the gumption to praise God in that famous line—“Though [God] slay me, yet will I hope in Him[.]” Job 13:15. Was Job unhinged? What am I missing? Are there actually any persuasive reasons justifying God’s allowance of unimaginable suffering without explaining Himself, giving and then stripping everything from us? Answers that would help me trust His goodness again? Or trust Him period?

Regardless, tonight, as I lie in this bed, I’m clinging tight to a belief I’ve etched in stone—God won’t ever dare to defy me or my family again. 

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I let out a breath that deflates my entire body.

No, no. Everything’s going according to plan. I’m about to start my dream job. You’ll help me, right Lord? This milestone will give me so much purpose and joy. 

And I’m really hoping this Saturday night surprises me… 

Sure, God will give me “average” suffering here and there to keep me “humble” like everyone else. But deep down I know God wants Lara to thrive, based on His past blessings. That’s how you assess a case: evidence. Plus. 

After God’s felony crime concerning Aunt Jackie, I gave Him a plea deal years ago. (My courtroom, my rules.) I told Him I’m willing to suffer and still remain a believer, so long as He comes through for me each time in the end. 

It was a reasonable deal. 

And God is going to keep His end of the deal. 

Copyright © 2025 by Lara Silverman, J.D.