So here I am driving down the road, reeling from an earlier conversation, trying to piece things together in some sort of cohesive package, and painfully aware that I am unable to do so.  Today the thoughts are heavy and thick and slow and painful.  I am uncomfortable. I feel helpless.  And I can feel myself slipping from bad to worse.

You see I had this earlier conversation with a friend of mine, which started out like most, but it took a strange turn and ended badly.  It caught me off guard, came without warning, and my defenses were down.  It went from “nice day out there” to “and his little girl had a hard time on Father’s Day” to “but we know people that know families in the centers” to “I saw this photo of a kid” all before I could brace myself for impact.  It came in high and hard. BAM!

It was one of those helpless conversations when your rational self says, “OK, deep breath, just listen and be present” but your emotional self-screams out, “But why?” and “How?” and “God no, please make it stop!” The suicide and detention center were the ammunition.  But the trigger was the photo of the kid.

It captured a little girl, maybe 3 yrs. old, standing next to three sets of legs. You could tell the legs belonged to men dressed in suits, but the photo was cropped about thigh high, so you could not see the rest of their bodies.  Stare at it long enough and slowly you come to realize that the legs are symbolic representations of all of us.  Of everyone that refuses to acknowledge the injustice, the lack of dignity.  They are the legs of those among us that refuse to see.

You could tell from the camera angle that the men were standing in a tight circle, shoulder to shoulder, blocking out everything else around them.  They appeared relaxed as if everything was normal, as if it was just another ordinary day.  They were turned away from the kid.  She was standing outside the circle, looking up searching for comfort, support, love, kindness, understanding, ANYTHING!  And the men completely ignored her.  You could tell from their body language that they didn’t see or hear her.  That she was completely invisible.  Just a thread in the fabric of life on our Southern Border.  A 3 yrs. old.  Separated from her family, hysterical, confused, afraid, tears streaming down her cheeks, her body contorted as she reeled from emotional pain.  I can’t shake the image.  Once you see you can’t un-see.

As I said, its heavy and thick and slow and painful.

Our conversation ended when we realized there was nothing else left to say.  We could not figure out a way to make a difference.  To solve the little girl’s problems.  To make everything all right.  In a way I felt like we were outside looking in.  Unable to be heard.  Invisible. But why?  And how? And God no, please make it stop!

Then a strange thing happened, towards the end of my drive home, at the corner of Pico and Euclid.  An old man was standing there with a little handheld sign.  He was all alone.  Just him. Standing there.  One voice.  Holding up a sign for cars passing by.  Speaking to the little girl.  To the men in the circle.  To me.  And to everyone that is willing to listen.

The sign said, “Keep Families Together.”

A voice. Calling out. Hope, standing on the corner of Pico and Euclid. On my drive home.

Divine intervention…onward->