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Last week, I went to my yearly Christmas production, and as usual, I enjoyed the music and disliked the drama part.

This year the play was particularly annoying. It was about a reporter whose three cell phones kept ringing. That was silly.

The wanna-be-hot-shot journalist gets sent to a small town on Christmas Eve, to emcee the town’s celebration. Once there, he meets two children. One of them wonders off, and people blame him for the disappearance.

It was a rainy night and the town was flooding. But the little girl ends up finding a rock on high ground where to rest, and angels come to comfort her and keep her safe. The journalist finds the lost child and then gives his life to Jesus.

What’s so annoying about that? Well, where are the angels every time thousands of children—in real life—wonder off or are stolen and subsequently sexually abused and/or murdered?

No, there aren’t any angels protecting children out there. That’s abundantly clear if we read the news.

Personally, I never saw angels when I was being trampled and abused by God-following adults as a kid. In fact, the same God fearing people are still trying to convince me that I’m ugly, worthless, and despicable. And, again, I haven’t seen angels.

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