Last night, during my yearly meeting with Dad, a tradition I now share with you, God, our conversation took an unexpected turn. Dad asked, "Where was the most terrifying place you've ever been?" Right away, I thought of my time walking the DMZ, the demilitarized zone. I wasn't a soldier, but I often walked between fences, watched by silent cameras and surrounded by hidden dangers like bouncing betties. The sharp scent of dust hung in the air, and sometimes in the distance I would hear the metallic click of a gate shutting, echoing along the empty path. The space between the two battle lines was filled with tension and uncertainty, leaving a deep impression on me. I remember the anxious silence, always feeling watched, and the fear that anything could happen at any moment. That place showed me how fragile peace and safety are, and how easily people can forget their shared humanity. But before I could answer, Dad began to share his own story in a way I had never heard before.
My father began to speak, and his words felt especially thoughtful, as if something deeper were guiding him. He told me that his most frightening day didn't happen far away, but right here at home. I was surprised when he said, "I once visited a court, wanting to understand why children were being punished so harshly for taking things that were not theirs—sometimes small things, like candy or toys. How did we forget to be kind and forgiving when someone makes a mistake, especially young people who are still learning?" Capitalism's failure at its final hour.
He talked about how upsetting it was to see people hurting each other and acting without kindness. Judges, who are supposed to stand for justice, sometimes made choices that harmed innocent children and forgot their duty to protect and guide. I remember him telling me about a young boy named Marcus (not his real name), only nine years old, who was brought before the court for taking a lunchbox from a classmate. Instead of help or understanding, Marcus was given hours of community service and left feeling isolated and ashamed. The adults in the room were quick to judge, but no one stopped to ask Marcus why he was so hungry that he needed to steal, or what support he needed at home. He said the system has been focused on itself from the very beginning.
Even when things seem unfair, my father reminded me that real change starts in our own communities. We can work together to make sure every child feels valued and safe, not judged or forgotten. As a faith community, we can help by reaching out to children in need, offering mentorship to those at risk, and supporting a justice that focuses on healing rather than punishment. For example, restorative justice circles can bring together those affected by harm—children, their families, and even those who were hurt—to share stories, listen to each other, and find a way forward that repairs the harm instead of just handing out punishment. By inviting young people and adults to participate in these circles or youth-led panels, we give everyone a voice and a chance to heal. We can also collect supplies for families, volunteer at schools, and work with groups that protect young people's rights. When we stand together and show compassion, we help address the very fears my father saw.
It seemed that what truly troubled God was not war or violence, but the sadness He felt when people forgot to treat each other with fairness and kindness. Instead of real justice, He saw courts that just followed rules without caring about what was right for people, and this made Him sad.
God always speaks as Himself, true to His nature. The DMZ felt like watching death happen slowly. I once had an international incident there, when I got a closer look at the shooter from the other side. Kindness and fairness are not about pretending; they are real virtues, not hidden hostility or fake bravery. Even a DMZ can be compassionate through its signs. I remember one day on patrol, someone quietly risked stepping between a stray dog and a minefield, gently guiding it to safety without anyone applauding or even noticing. That kind of simple, invisible courage stays with me far longer than any showy, dramatic act.
No AI can be me. Lord, as I reflect on my father's words and the ways justice can go wrong, I pray for a return to real compassion and understanding. Move us to seek wisdom, so we may know right from wrong with mercy, and strengthen us with the courage to stand up for justice through love, not fear. Let us, and everyone who sees injustice, become instruments of Your grace so that together, we can help restore faith in what justice truly means. Unite our hearts and actions so that our hope naturally leads to change. We need to learn capitalism from crime. Work from labor and put soul in the back seat.
We should all remember to treat each other with kindness and fairness. May kindness guide our thoughts, and fairness shape our hands. Let compassion be the rhythm of our days, and justice the song we carry into the world.
