Moving parts: Liturgical body language
More than 20 years ago when our son was seven years old, I took him to the New York Auto Show at the vast Jacob Javits Center on the west side of Manhattan. Ben and I arrived midmorning to find that the place was already packed. Within half an hour I found myself separated from him. I had lost my child in the crowd.
My head swam, my stomach churned, and I broke into a sweat. I dashed around the Ford exhibit looking for a little blond boy in a press of clueless humanity. When I couldn't find him I expanded my search. I went to security and asked them to announce his name on the PA system. They said they didn't do that and directed me to the Lost Child Center. When Ben wasn't there, I began to panic. I went back to security and raised my voice but still got no help. So I started my own systematic search of the Jacob Javits Center.
Two horrendous hours later I found him. He was at the Mercury exhibit listening to a six-foot robot stutter out the praises of the latest Cougar. He was not 200 feet from where I had last seen him and was not crying. When he saw me, he ran to me, and as I lifted him up in my arms a tear or two trickled down his cheeks.
