We considered our neighborhood safe. Our nine-year-old son Adam often rode his bike with friends, but our six-year-old daughter Tara stayed close to our home.During our years spent attending seminary, we lived in low-income housing in a North Texas neighborhood, without any trees or much grass in the yards. Everyone had an almost identical, small house, with similar-colored bricks and roofing—tract housing at its best—and that’s all we could afford.Late one summer afternoon, Adam failed to show up for our evening meal. When he didn’t respond to his dad’s calls to come home, I asked Tara, “Will you go find
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