Do you ever watch parents interact with their children and think about the orphans who have no idea what that’s like? It happens to me pretty frequently.

This past week I visited the state capitol for a homeschool event. My friends and I spent some time sitting in on a public hearing about the Common Core. One of the testimonies was given by a mother who was there with her deaf child. The mom passionately expressed her frustration over potential laws that did not make provisions for her daughter. Watching this mom plead on behalf of her daughter, my mind wandered to the deaf orphans like Aris who don’t have anyone to fight for them. The mom at the hearing wanted to make sure her daughter had the best opportunities possible, but perspective adoptive parents pass over kids like Aris because of the challenges presented by their special needs.

This week a group of homeschooled young adults I know has been praying for a young man who went on life support after his heart stopped beating. This young man has brittle bone disease, just like Candy who we’ve been praying for. This boys mother is crying out to God for her son and begging others to do the same. Who will pray for Candy and sit by her bedside if the same thing happens to her? Who will comfort her when her bones break? Who will pay attention if she’s too tired and weak to move around? Who will beg God for life if her heart stops beating and weep tears of joy if it starts again?

These children with special needs deserve families who care just as much as those people born into loving families.

If there is something I’ve learned in this journey to try to figure out how to help orphans it’s that this problem is way bigger than me. Every single aspect of orphan care is complicated. Sometimes it seems like each of the worlds 153 million orphans is mummified in red tape that has to be hacksawed through before anything can happen. And it’s hard to do that without hurting the child stuck inside. I don’t have all the answers. In fact, I’ll be pretty happy when I figure out some of the answers. But in the meantime, I can care.

Caring doesn’t cost money. It doesn’t require hoping on a plane and traveling around the globe. I might not be able to sit by Candy’s bedside or sign my love to Aris, but I can be the one to cry out to God on their behalf. I can cry the tears their mothers would shed if they had families. I can beg God to give them families, and hope that someday they’ll have parents to tuck them in at night. You can too. These kids may not know this side of heaven that we love them, but in the grand scheme of things that only God knows, I bet we can make a difference even in something as simple as that.