That Proud and Tight Jackal

I’ve been a Peter Gabriel fan for as long as I can remember. I like all of it, the strange, early Genesis records, the pop-heavy hits from the ’80s, and the slow, brooding stuff he’s put out in the later years. But like a lot of folks, one of my favorite songs is Come Talk to Me.

Once you know the story behind it, the whole thing hits harder. It’s not a love song. Not in the usual sense. Gabriel wrote it after his divorce, when he was estranged from his daughter, Anna-Marie. He wanted to reconnect. She wasn’t ready. And you can hear that ache in the song, the pleading of a father who just wants to sit down and talk. Just a chance. Please, come talk to me.

Live long enough, and you’ll feel that ache. It might not be a child. It might be a sibling, a friend, a church member. Someone who once sat close and now stands far off. You don’t even remember how the distance started. But it’s there.

There’s wisdom in giving people space. Sometimes a little silence lets the dust settle. But silence has a way of stretching itself out. A day turns into a week. A week turns into a year. And the mind—well, the mind won’t leave things alone. It spins up stories and then starts believing them. Like the lyric says, “Whatever fear invents, I swear it makes no sense.” But we go on believing it anyway. You stare at static long enough and start seeing faces. You lie awake at night, turning shadows into devils. The truth stays fixed. It’s our fears that move.

A single night of rest can bring clarity. Too many nights, and you start rewriting history. You stop talking to the person and start talking to yourself. And just like the fish that gets bigger every time you retell the story, so do the offenses. So do the wounds. Until someone who was actually there says, Hold on—it happened, but not like that.

Time doesn’t always heal. Sometimes it just buries. And while it’s good to bury what’s dead, it’s dangerous to bury something still alive. Like a splinter sealed under skin, it festers. That’s why Scripture tells us not to let the sun go down on our anger. That’s why we’re told to leave our gift at the altar and seek reconciliation. We’re not called to fake peace, we’re called to make it.

Take the night if you need it. But don’t let the night become your new address. Come talk to me. Let’s pull out the splinter before it rots. Let’s name things, and name them right.

It’s one thing to stretch the size of a fish. It’s another to turn a sharp exchange into a full-blown betrayal. And these days, we’re so trained to defend ourselves that we treat even the smallest moment of self-reflection like it’s a threat. But it isn’t. It’s a gift. Ask yourself: What did I get wrong? What’s my part in this? Pray it through. Think it through. But don’t let it sit.

If someone says, Please, come talk to me... go.

And if you’re the one still waiting, singing the Gabriel song in the silence, there are things you can do too. Keep the line open. Leave the porch light on. Write down what you want to say, if that helps. Just don’t let your thoughts grow fangs in the dark.

Some relationships break fast. But don’t be too quick to declare the death. The God who sent His Son to speak peace into this world will one day make all things new. And until then, a single conversation might be all it takes to bring the dead back to life.