The wheels in her mind were whirling so intently you could almost hear the clicking of the gears. Emma's eyes fixated on a panel of faces at our local Wal-Mart.

“Who are these people?” the five-year-old questioned, jabbing a finger at the wall. My wife, Diana, explained that these were children who were missing from home.

"But why?" came the inevitable follow-up. "Why aren't they at home? What happened?" As we nudged our cart past the wall, Diana did her best to clarify the situation. "Some of these children ran away, but many of them were taken by someone else."

“They were?”  Emma’s face darkened, transitioning from curiosity to concern. “Who would take them? Why did they do that?” she demanded with fiery indignation as Diana nosed the cart toward the exit.

Explaining kidnapping to a five-year-old is a delicate task, but Diana did her best. Yet, as the wheels of the shopping cart clattered over the exit threshold, there were wrinkles on Emma's forehead. "I feel sad for those missing children," she told me. "Anything could happen to them. They’re just…out there!”  Her eyebrows scrunched gravely, her little hands animated with angst.

Emma’s concern was great—but mine was small. And that's when I knew a five-year-old had schooled me.

What’s wrong with me? What is so wrong with my heart that I can pass by those same faces—yet not see them? How can I walk by a wall of images of real kids with real stories and real families experiencing real agony—and feel so little?

Lord, deliver me—deliver all of us—from a hard heart. And would you please bring those lost children home?

Vindicate the weak and fatherless. Do justice to the afflicted and destitute. Rescue the weak and needy. Save them from the hand of the wicked.

Psalms 82:3,4

P.S. Learn more at The National Center for Missing and Exploited Children.

https://www.missingkids.org/footer/about

Image by Лечение наркомании from Pixabay