Some kids don't know where they'll spend the night. How can we

Hear the solemn cry of Dennis Moore, who declared with compassion and urgency: “Some kids don’t know where they’ll spend the night. How can we expect them to focus on learning?” These words strike like thunder, for they reveal the deep wound that lies beneath the surface of our societies. Education, the great torch of civilization, cannot burn brightly in the hearts of children whose bellies are empty, whose beds are uncertain, whose nights are filled with fear rather than rest. Moore’s words are not only an observation, but a lament, and also a call to justice.

He speaks of children without shelter, the most vulnerable among us. They wander from place to place, unsure if tomorrow they will find safety or warmth. And yet, upon such fragile shoulders, society still heaps the expectation of schooling, of attention, of learning as though knowledge could bloom without roots. But the ancients knew well that the body must be nourished before the mind can soar. As a farmer does not cast seed upon barren rock and expect a harvest, so too can we not cast lessons upon the weary child and demand wisdom.

History bears witness to this truth. In the Great Depression of the 1930s, countless American families lost homes and livelihoods. Children roamed the country with their parents, sleeping in cars, barns, and tents. Teachers reported that these children, though bright, struggled to sit still in class, to hold their thoughts upon books when hunger gnawed at their bellies and worry clouded their minds. And yet, when programs like free school meals and the Civilian Conservation Corps began to provide stability, learning returned, and young lives found a path to growth. This tale is a mirror to Moore’s warning: without addressing shelter and survival, education remains but a hollow hope.

The emotional core of his words is this: learning requires security. Just as the tree cannot rise without firm soil, a child cannot rise in knowledge without the foundation of safety. To demand otherwise is not only unfair—it is cruel. For how can a child recite the rules of grammar while wondering where he will sleep? How can she solve arithmetic while fearing the darkness of the street? Their plight reminds us that before wisdom can be cultivated, compassion must first be sown.

The lesson, O listener, is clear: we must not separate education from the greater duty of care. The schoolhouse and the shelter are brothers, the classroom and the kitchen are sisters. To build only one and neglect the other is to build on sand, where no future can stand. If society truly wishes its children to learn, it must first ensure that they are fed, clothed, and housed in dignity.

What then shall you do? First, open your eyes to the plight of the unseen—those children in your own city or town who wander between shelters or live in silence about their struggles. Second, support the works of mercy: food programs, housing initiatives, and schools that embrace the whole child, not merely the student. Third, lift your voice so that leaders may know: education without compassion is an illusion, and justice without action is a lie.

And remember always: the measure of a people is not in the wealth of its monuments nor the power of its armies, but in how it treats its most vulnerable children. When no child wonders where they will sleep, then learning will flourish like a river in spring. Until that day, Moore’s words must echo in our hearts, stirring us not to pity alone, but to action, so that every child may learn not in fear, but in peace.