The Trauma of Being Lost

I went into work late one day last week because of a dentist appointment, and during my usual walk crosstown, I noticed a little boy walking around with a scooter looking around nervously in front of Grand Central Station. Within a few seconds, it was painfully obvious that the child was lost.

A small group of other bystanders on the sidewalk also paused and saw the little boy push his scooter around almost in circles as his eyes futilely tried to scan the crowds for his mother. When it was clear that no adult nearby was his parent, I walked over to him as did a Grand Central Station security guard.

The child started to cry for his mother, and I squatted down next to him and tried to assure him that things were going to be okay and we were going to find his parents. As the security guard radioed for police and as we waited, I tried to engage and comfort the boy. Between sobs, he told me that his name was Max and after flashing him some different age possibilities on my hand, I found out that he was three years old. I told him that I had a daughter about his age and kept reassuring him that people were on their way who were going to make everything okay.

In a few minutes, a police officer came and tried to asked the still sobbing boy for his mommy's name and if he remembered from which direction they came from. The officer began to walk westbound with the boy and within minutes, another security guard came running up with his radio: they had found the mother who had been further east on 42nd street frantically looking for her child. I saw the mother running quickly towards us pushing a stroller with tears in her eyes.

I ask her if she was Max's mother, which she confirmed, and I told her that he was fine and was going to be brought back shortly by the police officer. I explained that we found him alone on the corner of 42nd Street of Vanderbilt but besides being scared, he was fine. The grateful mother asked me for my name, but I smiled, told her that I was just grateful that Max was okay, just as Max approached with the police officer. I slowly walked away as the mother was joyfully reunited with her son.

I walked another two blocks to my office, shut the door and sat silently at my desk for a few minutes, with a tidal wave of emotions swirling within me. Was I projecting one of my own children being lost? Was I struck by the enormity of a scenario where one of my children was at the mercy of a handful of strangers, hopeful that they'd encounter one who would be benevolent and not malevolent? Was I living vicariously through the boy's mother, terrified of the thought of losing my own young son or daughter in the city? Was I vicariously living through the little boy who was understandably terrified out of his mind? Perhaps it was a combination of all of those things.

Something else dawned upon me around how traumatizing it is to be 'lost'. The little boy didn't know where he was, didn't know where he was going and had no presence to guide him or protect him. He was in a scary place full of potential hazards and thoroughly unequipped to deal with his surroundings. It's arguably one of the most traumatizing feelings in the continuum of human emotion, perhaps only matched by a parent who has lost or is looking for a child who is lost.

I suppose it's no wonder why Jesus uses this imagery in Luke 15, when he tells the parables of the lost sheep and lost coin. Perhaps it's fitting given the depth of human despair that exists in those who are lost (regardless if people know it or not), and the depth of longing and yearning from God to bring those who are lost back to him, borne out a love which is described as higher than mountains and deeper than the seas.

On an ordinary Tuesday, a scared little boy pushing around a scooter became for me a heartbreaking picture of those of us without Christ who have been given the grace to realize just how lost we are. And on that same day, a tearful reunion between a mother and child became a window into the joy of those who come back to the Father.