It was just another ordinary Tuesday—nothing special. I had grocery bags in both hands, and my 8-year-old son, Ben, was skipping beside me, talking about cartoons, school, and snack ideas like he always did.
As we neared the corner of our block, we passed a police officer by his cruiser. He was chatting with someone, minding his own business. Ben tugged at my sleeve and said, “Mama, can I ask him something?”
I assumed he wanted to see the badge up close or ask about the flashing lights on the patrol car. I smiled and nodded. “Sure, baby.”
But what Ben did next completely caught me off guard.
He walked straight up to the officer, his little voice firm but gentle, and said, “Excuse me, sir… can I pray for you?”
The officer paused—visibly surprised. Then he glanced at me, almost seeking permission. I just nodded, frozen with emotion.
Without hesitation, this grown man got down on one knee right there on the sidewalk, eye level with my son.
Ben gently placed his hand on the officer’s shoulder, closed his eyes, and whispered:
“I wanna pray that he stays safe today… and doesn’t have to hurt anybody. And that when he gets home tonight, he remembers he’s a good person.”
I couldn’t speak. My throat tightened. Because we’d never had any deep talks about police or violence. I had assumed Ben wasn’t paying attention to the news that day I turned it off too quickly. But clearly, he had felt something.
The officer stood back up slowly. His eyes were filled with tears. He looked at Ben like he’d just been handed something sacred.
“Thank you,” he said, his voice cracking. “You have no idea what that means.”
As we walked the rest of the way home, Ben turned to me and asked something that broke my heart even more…