A Sunday morning somewhere in the world saw the woman being signaled by another. “Please pray for these children. Lay your hands on them and pray.”
The woman looked and took in an image of three huddled children; two girls and one boy. Their ages appeared to range from six to 12 years old.
“Who are they? What is their story?”
The woman was told . . .told the ugly story that resonates with countless other children who are accursed, disrespected, and tossed headlong into the societal rubbish that is strewn about our globe. Deeply troubled, the children have no set point, no guiding star, no clear direction for their raw baby lives. Physical, mental, and sexual abuse have been their instructors. Confusion, loss, and black abandonment are daily companions.
The woman grieved as she learned the little boy has never known his father. Never. The mother of the children are dead. The man who fathered his daughter, then had erotic activities with that child now fights for custody.
With stretched forth arms, the woman circled the three. “Come here,” she said to them. “I want to pray for you. Jesus loves you. I want you to always remember that. No matter what happens, do not forget that Jesus loves you. He’s on your side.” She prayed aloud as was her custom, the children standing still and huddling close to her. “Jesus, be the guardian of these dear children. Protect them. Keep them from harm . . . ” After the prayer, the conversation was of distances, and churches, and hope.
The woman did not sleep well that night.