Frequently, over the past few days, this scene has come to my mind. On more than one occasion, while attending the youth conference in Tucson last week, I chanced to sit behind this family. I’m not sure of the name of the beautiful little girl, but she belongs to Pastor and Mrs. Kevin Bradford of Bakersfield, CA.
Oblivious–completely unaware–this child occupies a place that to any clear-thinking individual is one of unusual desirability and of ultimate safety. Having no say in the matter, having no perception even of being, into the middle of an obscene and corrupt world this little soul was placed.
She’s one of the few–one of the rare–for her parents are God-fearing people whose lives are directed by God’s Word and by His Spirit, whose Deity is their center, whose Master is their core. From conception her developing ears have tested the sound of worship and of devotion. From birth she has been carried into the sanctuary. And I watched last week as she nuzzled into her father’s shoulder and squirmed in her mother’s arms.
Around this privileged child–around me, a privileged adult–rose the wondrous sound of praise and worship, its notes lovingly thrown from the throats of men, so that finally the atmosphere was of Heaven and hardly resembled the earth. I saw children raising their tiny arms, miniature silhouettes of their mothers and of their fathers. I watched as they clapped their baby hands…and at that moment, last week in Tucson, the issue of privilege overwhelmed me, and when I look at the image above, I see its face.
For I know other children, whose lives are as different from these as is golden dawn from the ink of midnight, whose privilege is low and miry, whose atmosphere is alcoholic, and dank and evil and drug infested. And this afternoon, here in Lake Havasu, I weep for those babies.