At church, Pastor Howard led us in prayer. " . . . for the victims and families . . . "
" . . . for the young man being held . . . "
I nodded again, smug in my compassion.
" . . . and for those who would captivate the minds of our young people."
What? Them too? I hadn't considered the shadowy figures in Russia whose influence might have set terror in motion. Or their families.
My compassion withers under asterisks and exceptions, while Love, unfolding, claims every child as "ours."