The mall was crowded. I was maybe 5 years old. And I was lost.

If you’ve ever been lost in the mall as a little boy you know true terror. I had somehow drifted from my mother. I had been distracted by—of all things—a magic show.

I am a middle-aged man now, but I can still remember the magician’s performance with startling clarity. He wore a polyester tux, bright red, with a pink Travolta shirt. One look at that tux and I left my mother’s side.

I stood among others my age in the meager audience watching his magic act. We were all wide eyed, smelling of little-kid sweat, with runny noses.

Then, suddenly the show was over and I was lost in a shopping mall with thousands of strangers moving all around me.

What was I supposed to do NOW? Should I go look for my mother? Should I stay put? Should I ask the guy in polyester tux to saw me in half? A kid’s brain doesn’t think logically.

So I went searching for my mother, which was the absolute worst thing I could have done because this only made me more lost. I wandered through shoe stores, clothing stores, Sears, and a candle store that smelled like a sickening mixture of pumpkin pie and Chanel No. 5.

Finally, mercifully, a tall man in a blue uniform with an eight-point cap and a golden badge found me. He said, “Are you lost?”

I began to cry.

He was an enormous policeman, nearly 14 feet tall. He squatted to my eye level. He smiled and said, “Where’re your parents?”

I cried even harder.

“Can you tell me your mom’s name?”

I tried to remember my mother’s name. But I was so scared that I couldn’t think of my mother’s Christian name. What WAS her first name? I usually just called her Mama or Ma’am. I upgraded from crying into hyperventilating.

“Now, now,” said the officer, resting a nine-pound hand on my shoulder. “Everything is gonna be just fine.”

The officer hoisted me into his huge arms, cradled me against his chest, and carried me across the mall among a sea of heads. And I felt safe.

During our walk, after I quit crying, I asked him the most pressing question my 5-year-old brain could think of. “Can I touch your badge?”

This amused the cop. “You can do more than that.” He unpinned his badge and fixed it to my little T-shirt.

This was the greatest thing to ever happen to me. A badge. I had never worn a real badge before. It was heavy. I had no idea that badges were so weighty. The thing nearly ripped my shirt clean off.

It was all so wonderful, I decided to press my luck. “Can I wear your hat?”

This really made the big man laugh. He said, “Well, just for a few seconds.” He removed his hat to reveal a mop of gray hair and placed it onto my head. There I was, riding through the mall with a badge and a peaked cap. This was shaping up to be a good day.

We arrived at the customer service desk where the cop set me down and talked with a grumpy lady behind the counter. Soon, the woman was using an intercom microphone to address all 2,129,434 shoppers in the mall. With a shrill voice she described a lost boy with red hair, hazel eyes, orange-soda mustache, and a NASCAR T-shirt that didn’t quite cover his belly.

Before she finished her announcement, the cop told the lady to let me use the intercom microphone. So the woman begrudgingly handed me the mic. The cop told me exactly what to say. I repeated it word for word:

“Mama, it’s me. I’m at the lost-and-found desk. I’m okay. Come get me. Over.”

The “over” part was all my idea.

And we waited. For the next several minutes, the gigantic policeman became my new best friend. He told jokes, stories, and kept me entertained.

I noticed a bowl of peanut M&Ms on the grumpy lady’s desk. I asked the woman if I could have some, but she said no, these peanut M&Ms were only for people who weren’t 5-year-old children.

But the policeman acted like he didn’t hear her and presented the bowl to me anyway. I was so excited I removed both fingers from my nostrils and grabbed two handfuls of M&Ms.

That’s when I saw my young mother, rushing through the sea of heads. Her hand was waving like she was trying to catch a bus. When she arrived her eyes were bloodshot. She thanked the officer profusely, but the large man didn’t seem to want thanks.

Before we left, it was time for me to give back his badge and hat. I returned them to the officer who fuzzed my hair and said, “See? I told you everything would be okay.”

And so yesterday, when I was leaving the grocery store and saw a uniformed man leading a small, lost child to the customer service desk, I couldn’t help but watch. Minutes later, when I saw a worried mother running to embrace the found child, I felt my heart swell until my ribs began to hurt.

Because even though I’m older now, I still remember that kind officer from long ago. I remember his massive shoulders, his enormous hands, and his immense size.

But then, I guess it takes a big person to carry a badge that heavy.