Lord Jesus, I do not understand.
Sometimes I see what happens to babies and children in this world, and something inside me cries out against You.
A newborn abandoned.
A baby found in a dumpster.
A little child beaten, neglected, starved, exploited, abused, or killed.
A child frightened of the very people whose arms should have been the safest place in the world.
And then I look at our empty arms.
I look at the years of infertility.
I look at the waiting.
I look at the home where a child would be welcomed, protected, prayed over, taken to Mass, tucked safely into bed, kissed goodnight, taught about Jesus, and surrounded by people who have been waiting so desperately to love them.
And a terrible question rises from somewhere deep inside me:
Why, God?
Why did they get a child and we didn’t?
Why did conception come so easily into a place where a child would be harmed while we begged You month after month for the chance simply to become parents?
Why does a woman who does not want her baby become pregnant while another woman falls asleep crying because she would give almost anything to feel a baby growing beneath her heart?
Why does a man become a father and then hurt the child entrusted to him while another man would gladly spend his entire life protecting the son or daughter he has never been given?
Why are babies abandoned while adoptive families wait?
Why are children abused while loving homes remain empty?
Why does any child ever have to wonder whether the people who created him will also be the people who hurt him?
Lord, I know there are things I cannot see.
I know every frightened mother has a story I do not know.
I know addiction, mental illness, poverty, trauma, violence, desperation, isolation, and generations of wounded families can create situations far more complicated than they appear from the outside.
I know I must not turn another person’s tragedy into a judgment about the entirety of that person’s soul.
But none of that makes the suffering of a child acceptable.
And none of it answers the question inside me.
Why them and not us?
Please do not be offended by my asking.
I am not trying to tell You that we deserve a child more than someone else.
A child is not a prize awarded to the best applicants.
Fertility is not a reward for goodness.
Infertility is not a punishment.
Parenthood is not proof of virtue, and childlessness is not evidence that someone has been rejected by You.
I know this.
But knowing it does not stop the ache.
Because sometimes the world seems unbearably upside down.
So I bring that anger to You instead of pretending it isn’t there.
Lord, where were You when that baby was left alone?
Where were You when that child cried for someone to come?
Where were You when an adult crossed a boundary that should never have been crossed?
Where were You when the person who was supposed to protect a child became the source of fear?
I do not have an answer large enough for those questions.
But I know what our faith does not permit me to say.
You did not desire the abuse.
You did not will the violence.
You did not create that child so someone could hurt them.
Human beings can misuse the freedom You gave us, and innocent people can suffer terribly because of another person’s sin.
And still I want to scream:
But they are children, Lord.
They are so small.
Why doesn’t Your hand simply reach down and stop it?
There are mysteries here I cannot solve.
So do not give me an easy answer, Jesus.
Give me Yourself.
You entered a world in which children were not always safe.
You became small.
You became vulnerable.
You were carried away by Mary and Joseph when Herod sought Your life.
You know what human cruelty can do.
And on the Cross, You did not observe suffering from a safe distance. You entered into the worst that human beings could do and refused to let evil have the final word.
So when I cannot understand, let me stand beneath that Cross and tell You the truth:
I hate this.
I hate that babies are abandoned.
I hate that children are abused.
I hate that children are killed.
I hate that some little ones learn fear before they learn safety.
I hate that there are people begging for children while other children are begging to be protected.
And Lord, I hate that I cannot fix it.
But do not let my anger become bitterness toward another mother or father.
Do not let infertility tempt me to look at someone else’s pregnancy and think, “I deserved that child more.”
No child belongs to me because I would have been a good parent.
No woman’s pregnancy was supposed to be mine.
No particular baby was taken from my arms and placed into hers.
The child we hope for is not something You accidentally delivered to the wrong address.
Help me understand this even when my heart rebels against it.
And yet, Lord, let this terrible question change us.
If there are children who need protection, show us how to protect them.
If there are mothers in crisis, show us how to support them before desperation becomes catastrophe.
If there are fathers overwhelmed by fear, addiction, poverty, anger, or their own unhealed wounds, send people who can intervene before another generation is hurt.
If there are children who need foster families, adoptive families, advocates, mentors, teachers, safe relatives, therapists, physicians, or simply one trustworthy adult, raise those people up.
And if You are asking something of us, make it unmistakable.
Turn the question “Why them and not us?” into another question:
“Lord, what would You have us do with all this love?”
We still ask You for a child.
Please do not mistake our surrender for indifference.
We still ask for conception if it is Your will.
We still ask for the adoption call.
We still ask for the little one we can hold, raise, protect, teach, comfort, and love for the rest of our lives.
We still ask for someone to call us Mom and Dad.
But while we wait, do not let our empty arms remain folded.
Teach us to use them.
Let these arms carry groceries to a struggling mother.
Let them hold a foster child who is frightened.
Let them embrace a grieving parent.
Let them prepare a meal.
Let them write the check.
Let them make the phone call.
Let them advocate.
Let them protect.
Let them serve.
And someday, if You finally place a child into these arms, never let us forget the children whose suffering once made us ask this question.
Make us fierce protectors of childhood.
Mary, Mother of Jesus, gather abandoned and abused children beneath your mantle.
St. Joseph, Terror of Demons and protector of the Holy Family, defend children whose homes are not safe. Stir the consciences of men and women who know that a child is being harmed and give them courage to act.
Guardian angels of these little ones, remain close when human protectors fail them.
Blessed Fulton Sheen, intercede for the sacred dignity of every human life.
And Jesus, when another terrible story appears and I find myself asking again, “Why did they get a baby when we would have loved that child?” correct my heart without silencing it.
Help me say instead:
Lord, I wish that child had been loved the way every child deserves to be loved.
Because beneath my anger, that is what I really mean.
I wanted that baby to be safe.
I wanted someone to hear that child cry.
I wanted somebody to come.
I wanted those little arms to know what it felt like to be held gently.
I wanted that child to have what every child should have had from the beginning:
love, protection, tenderness, dignity, and home.
And perhaps this is where my prayer must finally rest.
Not in understanding why.
But in begging You:
Jesus, protect the children.
And when You choose to protect them through human hands, make ours ready.
We do not understand why some people conceive and others do not.
We do not understand why some children are cherished and others are harmed.
We do not understand why our arms are still empty.
But we know that every child is Yours before that child belongs to anyone else.
So tonight we place every endangered little one into Your Sacred Heart.
And then, once again, we place our own empty arms there too.
Always remember Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.
Holy Family! Help us to be a holy family and pray for us!
Amen.