Many years ago, when my now 30-year-old son was two or three years old, he was playing in the yard while I was working. Then I looked up and I couldn’t see him. I checked around the corner of the house. Nothing.
I went inside and checked all rooms. Nothing.
I ran outside, now serious adrenaline had kicked in. I raced around the entire house. Nothing.
I started yelling for him. Nothing.
I ran 50 yards down the street. Nothing.
Complete and utter panic.
I ran back to the house, grabbed my bicycle. I figured that every second counted now. I rode further down the street calling for him. Nothing.
I figured I had gone further than he could have wandered off and returned home. Ran all around the yard again, calling for him. Nothing.
Then, suddenly, he ambled out from behind the acacia bushes along the fence, and I just about melted. I don’t know how long the entire episode was. Three or four minutes?
Three of four minutes of utter panic, because I had lost my child.
I’ll never forget the agony I went through.