Years ago, I was blessed to have been invited to an elementary school. As I was watching them during their lunchtime then recess I began to ask myself, who hears the children?

Who hears the children when they cry from pain?
Who hears the children when they cry in shame?
Who hears the children?

 Who hears the children when they’re poked and prodded?
Who hears the children in the dark of the night?
Who hears the children when they cry from fright?

 I watch them laughing and talking and running and playing.
So many of them don’t yet know it’s wrong for that shadow of an adult to come creeping into their bed at night.
So many of them don’t yet understand that what they feel will leave a deep scar on their soul if someone doesn’t listen.

 Who hears the children?

 The little one, his shoelaces were untied, and he seemed not to care.
That one over there brought his lunch in a bread sack.
Does anyone hear the children?

 She sits down slowly as if there’s pain.
She’s all alone in a room full of little ones.
Does anyone hear the children?

 It’s a sea of squirming, restless, energy-filled little humans, adults yet to grow from their child state. The noise of clattering trays and scraping chairs on the floor, the loud whispers as they line up to go play.

 That one over there, the little brown-haired girl, keeps her head down and dares to not make eye contact.
Clothes, torn and tattered, faded and too big.
Does anyone hear the children?

 It’s not a crime to wear old, worn-out clothes nor is it a sin.
Yet, then again, who hears the children?

They silently cry out from beneath their child-like faith, trusting and believing someone cares.

 There’s the well-dressed little girl with everything matching just so.
I wonder if she sees shadows at night, God only knows.

The little boy with blond hair and blue eyes, he’s so cute and sweet.
Does anyone know if he has enough to eat?

 My heart aches as if it will shatter to pieces.
What will we do?
Does it really matter?

I know how it feels, to be alone and confused, to be tattered and discarded and used.

Does anyone hear the children?

What are we to do, you and I, to help these children who some, may never even cry?

I do not know, I reply.
Yet I know that only God holds the answer to the children’s cry.

It is evil and wrong to violate, to touch, to prod, and to poke and say too much, leaving scars deeply etched on such a young soul.
Yet I wonder, who hears the children?

 I long to bring peace and safety to every young one on the planet this day but I know that won’t happen in my kind of way. So, I sit here typing these words from my heart and pray with deep meaning that somewhere a spark will ignite a fire for the children we have.

 Not every mom nor every dad has violated the little one they have had for which I praise God. I praise God for the many wonderful moms and dads who love their children and seem even glad to have such a precious gift.

 But again, who hears the children?

 And, who will listen?

Who will act?


House Full of Secrets is my latest nonfiction book. I share details of some of the abuse I survived in my childhood. All my books are available on Amazon. Just type in Pamela Richards-Woodall.

No one deserves to be abused!

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