January 3, 1998 I returned to college after break to find a MISSING posters plastered all over my apartment complex. A student had disappeared on New Year's Eve. Rumors and speculations ran rampant as the authorities launched a search. The story I heard went like this: He'd been drinking at a party and gotten into an argument with some frat boys. He'd left to go to his girlfriend's apartment but had never arrived.
Although the police were doing the best they could, the boy's parents quickly came forward to bring the spotlight to the story for additional support. Posters were blown up to gigantic proportions and put on billboards throughout the city and surrounding areas. I heard they took out a second mortgage on their home to offer rewards for any information, and hire diving teams to search the Grand River out side of our apartments. For months, it seemed you couldn't pick up a newspaper without reading about him, or turn on the news without updates to the story.
I'll never forget seeing the parents on TV one night. His mother was shaking and sobbing uncontrollably. Between sobs she'd plead, "Help me find my son…. PLEASE… help me find my son." On her face I could see the frantic desperation of a mother whose hear was breaking.
It's hard to imagine.
Yet, all throughout scripture I can hear that same desperation in the voice of the Good Shepherd as he searches for his lost. Sobbing, broken hearted, he pleads with each ear who hear his voice, "Help me find my children...PLEASE…help me find my children."
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