Missing

There is a family that goes to our church. I've only met two of its members, and until about three minutes ago, I hadn't even realized it. . . . . It's been on the news. The Gallego family. Their baby daughter is missing.

It was hard when it was some people from our church. It was difficult to imagine how I would react if I woke up and my baby wasn't where I had laid it down to sleep. What if the child had a hard time sleeping through the night, and my first thought had been, "Wow, that was a great night's sleep. I'm going to be able to get so much done today"?

I remember with vivid detail the morning that we got the call that my Uncle Dan was missing. He'd gone swimming and hadn't come back. There's an initial panic and then there's a numbness. I remember waiting, pacing around for hours, praying, "Please, don't take my Uncle Dan." I kept praying it over and over, "Not my Uncle Dan. Not my uncle Dan." It was the only thought in my head.

I can't imagine the amplification that my mom felt that day. I can't imagine the amplification that Ramy's parents have felt all of today.

That was all hard. Thinking about a little baby being abducted. Then, the imagining of the panic and the horror. Then, the remembering of things, how I felt during times of loss. And again, more imagining.

But there was a new wave tonight. And that was when I saw a picture of the baby with her mother. . . . I didn't know the people by name, you see, but when we'd had our Easter breakfast at church, Kristin Gallego was doing a lot of the work. She had a very small baby, Ramy, that another of their young daughters had been holding for a while.

The other daughter's arms were tired and Kristin was busy. I held the baby, not knowing her name, or who she was. I felt kind of awkward because I would have been slightly unhappy if I'd found some random woman holding my child.

I saw a picture of Ramy and Kristin and I remembered. I held that baby.

And with that little attachment, that little memory of probably less than ten minutes, everything took on a new view. It hit me like a ton of bricks, and it comes with fresh waves of nausea . . . I held that baby! She was in my arms, content to sit with a stranger while her mother worked. I held her!

And again, I've found my mantra, that repeating phrase in my head. No matter what I think, it goes back to it - "I held her."


Please pray for the Gallego family.