“Only Edward is lost to a religious group in India,” read the letter, “gone for three-and-a-half years. Do you know anyone there who could reach him? We haven’t heard in eight months. Except for the deep pain of his loss, my life is wonderful now.… It’s been an unbelievable experience but the pain is pushed down.” The letter was from a dear friend who has suffered incredibly. Yet I’m sure it is the loss of this one son that has caused the deepest hurt.
Soon after reading that I watched a young author being interviewed on TV about a book she has written on missing children. I was shocked to learn that children seven years old and above are considered accountable by the law. The 13-to 14-year-olds are most certainly accountable. If they are missing it is generally assumed they have run away. Not only is there often little help from the police, nor any central clearing house for tracking the lost, but the parents themselves are frequently suspect: did they do away with the children? In any case, concern and hurt over missing children are all too often combined with feelings of guilt. One can more easily handle death and gradually learn to accept it, but not this.
And then I recalled 1954. We were in London for three months’ mission in the old Harringay Arena in dreary north London. A friend had offered to give me a round-trip ticket back to the U.S. so that in the middle of that period I could return home to break the long separation from the children. When the first two months of the mission were completed, however, Bill felt he needed me and urged me to stay. Watching God work in lives was a tremendous privilege, but underneath was a growing longing to see the children. I couldn’t bear to look at their pictures on the dresser, and when bedtime came with little more than a quick, “Dear God, please bless each one,” I would dive into bed and try to fall asleep.
My letters home must have betrayed how I felt, because in one of her letters Mother told of the children’s prayer: “Dear God, please bless Mommy and help her not to be so homesick for us.” They were quite happy and content. It was I who was miserable.
But it taught me a lesson I have never forgotten. I thought about it when I read the letter from my young friend. I thought about it when I watched that interview on television. When we are away from God, he misses us far more than we miss him.
While we pray for peace, we need moral clarity about this war.
As my doubts about his teachings grew, so did a secret fascination with Jesus.
Do activists often invest their work with religious significance? All the more reason for Christians to be discerning co-laborers.
