Read This Like a Parent

Then tell me you’re okay with it.

I keep thinking about Liam Ramos.
I keep thinking about him because all I can see is my own son.

My son isn’t little anymore. But when he was in third grade, anxiety hit him hard. Real anxiety. Full-body, can’t-breathe, can’t-think, pacing-in-circles panic attacks. He would hyperventilate. He would spiral. He would say things that didn’t make sense because his brain was in survival mode. And before he knew how to regulate himself, he always came to me. Not because I’m special but because I’m his dad.

We’ve been up with him at 3 a.m. while he walked the same loop around the house for hours. We’ve reminded him to slow his breathing. We’ve sat with him while he tried to eat and his brain told him he couldn’t. We’ve helped him ride the wave until it passed.

Most of the time, his panic had a trigger. Something at school. Maybe a test or a social situation. Whatever it was, it was always something his nervous system decided was too much.

And I was there. Not because I had all the answers. Because I had him.

That’s why I can’t stop thinking about Liam. Because I know what it looks like when a child is terrified and doesn’t have the language for it. I know what it looks like when fear takes over a small body. I know how overwhelming the world can feel when you’re little. And I cannot imagine that fear without a parent there.

I can’t imagine a child who doesn’t know what’s happening, who doesn’t understand why strangers are taking him, who doesn’t know where his family is, who doesn’t know when he’ll see them again, who doesn’t know if he’s safe. I can’t imagine the panic or the confusion or the way his body must be screaming.

The worst part is that he doesn’t stop being scared just because the cameras are gone. Trauma doesn’t end when the news cycle moves on.
It lives in your nervous system.
It lives in your sleep.
It lives in the way your body reacts to the world.
I keep thinking about how terrified he must have been.
And how terrified he probably still is.

And then I think about the people who are fine with this. The people who justify and minimize it. The people who say it’s “necessary.” The people who shrug and move on. I don’t understand how you can be human and be okay with this. I genuinely don’t.

As a pastor, I’ll be honest with you: If you’re okay with this, I don’t want to know you. I don’t want you in my church.
I don’t want to build community with you.
I don’t want to pretend we share the same values.
Go be with other people who can look at a terrified child and call it “policy.” I can love you from over there.

You might think that sounds harsh or unloving. You might think I should be more gracious. But I’m not interested in spiritual niceties that require me to make peace with cruelty.

There’s a line that matters to me more than anyone’s comfort: Whatever you do to the least of these, you do to me. And Liam is the least of these. A five-year-old doesn’t have power. He doesn’t have lawyers. He doesn’t have a platform. He doesn’t have a voice in the system that hurt him. He just has fear.

So no, I don’t care if my words make someone uncomfortable. I don’t care if it hurts feelings. I don’t care if it sounds too blunt. I’m not here to protect adult egos. I’m here to protect kids.

Because at the end of the day, I’m not just a pastor. I’m a dad. And when your job is to protect your kid, you don’t worry about sounding polite. You worry about keeping them safe.

I would fight like hell for my kids. And I will fight like hell for Liam. And for every other child who is being treated like a problem instead of a person.

Some things don’t deserve neutrality. Some things don’t deserve “both sides.” Some things deserve a line in the sand. This is one of them.

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