Picture this: you have a son or a daughter and they are your miracle child; the doctors said you could not have children, but low and behold, here they are. They are perfect and no one will ever tell you otherwise. God gave you this gift and you will treasure it. You make sure this child is well-provided for, is safe, is loved, and is afforded all the things in life that they desire and can be given. Such is parenthood.

Fast-forward and your child tells you that they are gay. They have thought long and hard about who they are and are happier being with someone of the same sex rather than the opposite sex. It is hard news to hear because you know the sorrows they will encounter because of this. You begin to wonder what you did wrong, how this could have happened, and if it is just a phase. But you know it is not. You know your child. You know who they are just as much as they do. So you love them.

Now picture this: a jogger in the park notices  something in the bushes and finds a human hand. It is connected to a body that is so beaten and tattered that it makes it hard to identify the race let alone the identity. You get a call at 5 AM from the local police asking to identify a body that may be your child’s. You arrive to a scene that is beyond imagination. They do not show this type of horror in the movies. It is the birthmark on the left ankle that assures you…this is your child.

This is your miracle baby. This is the child that you stayed up with when they were sick, cheered at every game they had, listened to when they wanted to lay their burdens down, and cried at their graduation. This is the baby that you gave to the world in hopes they would take as good care of them as you had. This is your child. This is the same child who looked into your eyes with fear as they told you they were gay. This is your baby. This is the same child who wept over the baby bird who died in your driveway, who helped the neighbor with her trash because she was too feeble to bring it to the curb, and who got beaten up in middle school for defending the new kid with a lisp. This disheveled body…this…is…your…child.

The imagery is vague and fictional, but for the woman whose Navy son was beaten so badly that the only form of identification she could use to identify his body with was a tattoo, it was a cruel reality.

Every person here is someone else’s son and daughter. Why is it okay to put another mother or father through the heartache of outliving their children when you would not want such an evil on yourself? If your children are attacked, abused, or hurting, would you not want to help them? Would you not want to do everything in your power to make the person hurting them stop or hurt themselves? Why then would you do that to someone else’s child?

It is the paradox of evil that is created. One fights another to avenge their brother, but then that other’s brother must avenge his brother. And so the cycle begins and never ends.