The Children's Part
J. R. Miller, 1882
"What would I not give," said Charles Lamb, "to call my dear mother back to
earth for a single day, to ask her pardon, upon my knees, for all those acts
by which I grieved her gentle spirit!"
Many another sensitive heart, has felt the same pain when
standing by a parent's grave, and has sighed in like manner for an
opportunity to speak its penitence and its cries for pardon into the dead
ear. But filial love blossoms out too late, when it waits until the parental
ear is beyond the reach of human cry. The time for the child to show his
affection and gratitude is along the years, while the father and mother are
living and treading earth's paths. If he then strews thorns for their
feet—what does it avail that he brings flowers for their burial? If
he dishonors them by disobedience, by unkindness, by unworthy conduct, by
sin—what does it avail that he sets up the costly monument over their
graves, cutting in the white marble his praises of their virtues and their
faithfulness?
The place for the flowers is along the hard paths of toil
and care and burden bearing. The best monument for grateful affection to
erect is a noble, beautiful life, a joy to the heart and an honor in the
eyes of fond parental hope. Kindness to the living is better than bitter
tears of penitence over the dead.
The debt of children to a true Christian home, is one
that never can be overpaid, or even fully discharged. It dates from the
first moment of their being; it accumulates as the days and years pass on.
There are the years of helpless infancy with their solicitudes, their broken
nights and toilsome days, their unsleeping thoughtfulness and unselfish
sacrifice, their gentle nursing and patient watching. There are the years of
training and teaching, when the bodily powers are being developed, the feet
taught to walk, the hands to handle, the tongue to speak; when the mental
faculties are being drawn out, and when all the functions of life are being
trained to their several uses. There are the times of sickness when the lamp
never goes out in the room by night, and the pale, weary watcher accepts no
relief until the danger is past. There are long years of anxieties, of
prayers, of tears, of hopes, of disappointments, of sacrifices, of pains and
toils. The best that a child can do for true Christian parents, will never
repay them for what they done for him.
The question, therefore, "What is the children's part in
the home-life?" is no unimportant one. They have a place in making the
home-joy. Dreary is the household life, where no children ever come; very
lonely and desolate is the home, where they come and stay for a time and
then go away. Unconsciously, the children have a most sacred and holy part
in the home-life from their earliest infancy. Then all along their years,
while they remain under the old home roof and after they leave its shelter
to set up homes of their own, they have duties to perform and obligations to
render to those who gave them birth and watched over their helpless years.
The little wheels of a watch do not seem to be important,
yet if one of them is broken, or if it is bent, or if it fails to perform
its part—all the wheels will be arrested in their motion, and the watch will
stop. If the smallest wheel goes wrong, moves too fast or too slow, the
hands on the dial likewise go wrong. There is no part of the delicate
machinery of the watch so small, that it makes no difference how it does its
duty.
When the question is asked, "What part have the children
in making the home-life?" someone may answer, "The children cannot do
anything, at least while they are small, to aid in making the home what it
should be. They cannot help make money to buy bread. They cannot do the
work. When they grow older they can be of use—but when they are young all
they can do is to be rocked and petted while they are babies, and then as
they grow larger go to school and eat and romp and wear out clothes. They
cannot help in any way; they are only burdens."
But wait a minute. They are not so useless, after all.
They are like the tiny wheels of the watch. They may not look large enough
to be of any use, and yet there is not a child in any true Christian home so
small, as to have no influence. There is not even a baby that does not
unconsciously affect all the home-life by its coming. Indeed, every baby is
an emperor, with crown and scepter, and from its throne on the mother's
bosom it rules all the house. The father, out at his work in the busy
world, has a lighter, warmer heart—because he is thinking of the baby at
home. The mother gets through all her work more easily, because her
baby is sleeping in its crib or kicking up its heels on the floor beside
her. The boys and girls are gentler, quieter and more thoughtful since
Baby came. No one can say that any child is too small to have a part in
making the home-life. Of course a baby's part is done unconsciously, and it
is not to be held responsible, as are the children who have grown older.
This chapter is not addressed to babies—but to those who are of sufficient
age to know what they ought to do and to try to do it.
Here is the question on which every child, living in a
parent's house, should think much: "What is my part in making this
home what it should be?"
You know what a true Christian home ought to be. It ought
to be a place where love rules. It ought to be beautiful, bright, joyous,
full of tenderness and affection, a place in which all are growing happier
and holier each day. There should never be any discord, any wrangling, any
angry words or bitter feelings. The home-life should be a harmonious song
without one marring note, day after day. The home, no matter how humble it
is, how plain, how small—should be the dearest spot on the earth to each
member of the family. It should be made so happy a place, and so full of
life, that no matter where one may wander in after years, in any of the ends
of the earth, his home should still hold its invisible cords of influence
about him and should ever draw resistless upon his heart. It ought to be
the one spot in all the earth, to which he would turn first, when in trouble
or in danger. It should be his refuge, in every trial and grief.
To make a home such a power in one's after life, it must
be happy in the days of childhood and youth. Have childhood and youth any
responsibility for the realizing of this ideal of home? Is it altogether and
only the parent's work? So far as infancy is concerned, there
certainly is no responsibility. The father and mother must do all, and the
little one is only a tender and lovely plant growing in the garden which
parental hands tend. But with the years of consciousness comes
responsibility, and then every child helps either to make or to mar the home
blessedness and the home joy.
What should the child life be, that would perfectly
fulfill its part in the home? We have a model. Once there was a home on
earth in which a Child lived, whose life was spotless and faultless, and who
realized all that is lovely, tender and true in child life. If we only knew
how Jesus lived as a child in that Nazareth home, it would help other
children to live aright. We know that he helped to make the home happy. He
never caused his parents one anxiety, one pang, one moment of shame. He
never failed in a duty. We know that he did his part well in the making of
that home, and if we only had a memoir of his years of childhood telling us
what he did, every other child could study it and imitate his example.
We have no such memoir—but we have one single glimpse
into his home-life which reveals a great deal. We see him at twelve years of
age. He is in the temple at Jerusalem. He has been lost from his parents in
the great caravan returning from the Passover, and when they find him again,
we are told in one brief sentence that he went down with them to Nazareth,
and was subject unto them. Then for eighteen years longer he remained in
that home; we have not another word about him; not another glimpse do we get
of him or of his home; Scripture is silent concerning him all those years.
We have only this one sentences about the way in which he lived in that
home; "He went down with them to Nazareth, and was subject unto them." Yet
this one glimpse really reveals the whole history of those years. He was
subject to his parents.
Remember who this Child was. It was over his birth that
the angels sang their song: "Glory to God in the highest; on earth peace,
good will to men." He was the eternal Son of God. He had made all the
worlds. He had adorned the heavens. Him all the hosts of glory obeyed. Yet
he humbled himself, veiled his glory, and dwelt in a lowly home of earth for
thirty years. He submitted himself to earthly parents, and obeyed them. Then
he himself worked with his own hands to help support the home. No details
are given—just this one word; but we can easily fill out the picture for
ourselves. We see, for thirty years, from infancy to full manhood, this holy
Child exhibiting toward his parents—the most perfect dutifulness, obedience,
honor and helpfulness. He obeyed them, not by constraint, but cheerfully,
all these years. He did his part well in the making of that home.
His example is the answer to the question of this
chapter—that the great duty of childhood in the home-life, is to obey. He
was subject unto them. Although he was the Son of God, yet he obeyed human
parents. He did their will, and not his own. He had entered upon the affairs
of his heavenly Father. In the temple he had said, "I must be about my
Father's business." Yet immediately after saying this he went back to his
own home to take and keep for eighteen years more the place of a child.
Hence we conclude that the Father's business for him all those years, was
subjection to his earthly parents. That was the work which was given him to
do for that time. He had come to the earth on a great mission, the greatest
ever undertaken or performed in the universe, yet the place in which he was
prepared for that mission was not in any of the fine schools of the
world—but in a lowly home; not at the feet of rabbis and philosophers—but
with his own mother for his teacher. What an honor does this fact put upon
home! What a dignity upon motherhood!
It would seem that no argument after that, was needed to
prove to children the duty and the dignity of obedience to parents. We take
our place far back in the history of the world; we stand under the
cloud-crowned, fire-wreathed Sinai, and amidst its dreadful thundering, we
hear the voice of God proclaim: "Honor your father and your mother!" But
even all these scenes of majesty—the voice of Jehovah, the burning mountain,
the cloud and the thunder—did not give to this command such sacred
authority, such solemn importance, as when Jesus, the Son of God, for thirty
years in a lowly home on earth, submitted himself to human parents and
obeyed their commands.
Does any question ever arise as to the authority
of this divine word in the Decalogue? This picture of Jesus obeying it in
that Galilean home is sufficient answer.
Does the thought ever arise, "Is it manly—is it
womanly—to yield to my parents—to have no will of my own—to do their bidding
in all things?" Behold Jesus until thirty years of age, yielding to the
control of his human parents, asking them continually what they would have
him to do, referring every question to them. Was it manly in him? Surely
then, it cannot be unmanly in any son of earthly parents in this world.
Where shall we learn manliness, if not in the life and from the example of
Jesus? Thomas Hughes says, in speaking of manliness, and of courage as one
of its elements: "Tenacity of will lies at the root of all courage—but
courage can only rise into true manliness when the will is surrendered; and
the more absolute the surrender of the will, the more perfect will be the
temper of our courage and the strength of our manliness." There is nothing
manlier in all Christ's life, than his quiet subjection to his parents in
that cottage at Nazareth, though conscious of his divine origin and nature
and of his glorious mission. There is no manlier thing ever seen on this
earth, than a man in the prime of his strength and power showing deference
and love to a humble parent and yielding obedience and honor, as if he were
a little child.
Does some evil spirit suggest that such subjection to
parent keeps one down, puts chains on his freedom, keeps him under restraint
and hinders him from rising into grandeur and nobleness of character? Did it
have such effect on Jesus? Did the thirty years of submission in his
home—cramp and fetter his manhood? Did his subjection break his power,
repress the glorious aspiration of his soul, stunt and hinder the
development of his life and make his career a failure in the end? We know
well that it did not. There was a preparation for his mission which, as a
man, he could have gotten in no other way, but by the discipline he obtained
in his own home. No human powers were ever yet cramped or stunted or
repressed—by taking the place of subjection in the home. Rather, that life
will always be more or less a failure, which in its earlier years does not
learn to submit and be ruled. No one is fitted for ruling others, who has
not first learned in his place to obey.
Someone may say again: "My parents are very plain people.
They have never known much of the world. They have missed the opportunities
that I am enjoying, and therefore have not intelligence or wisdom or
education sufficient to direct my life."
We have only to remember again—who Jesus was. Was
there ever any human parent in this world who was really worthy or capable,
in this sense, to be his teacher, to guide and control his life? Was there
ever, in any home on earth, such a distance between parents and child as
there was in that home at Nazareth? Yet this Son of God, with all his
wisdom, his knowledge, his grandeur of character, did not hesitate to submit
himself to the training of that peasant mother and that peasant father.
Shall any other child, in view of this model child-life at home,
assert that he is too far advanced, to much superior in knowledge and
culture, too wise and intelligent; to submit to the parents God has given
him? If Christ could be taught and trained by his lowly parents for his
glorious mission, where is the true Christian parent who is not worthy to be
his own child's guide and teacher?
This, then, is the part of every child in the home-life.
This is the way in which children can do the most to make the home true and
happy. It is the part of the parents to guide, to train, to teach, to
mold the character. God holds them responsible for this. They must qualify
themselves to do it. It is the part of the children to accept this
guidance, teaching, training and shaping at the parents' hands. When both
faithfully do their part, the home-life will be a sweet song of love; where
either fails there will be discordant life, and the angel of blessing will
not leave his blessing of peace.
Such, in general, is the central feature of the
children's part in the home-life—to recognize their parents as the head, and
to yield to them in all things. This is not meant to make them slaves. The
home-life I am depicting, is ruled by love; the parental authority is
exercised in love; it seeks only the highest good of each child; it asks
nothing unreasonable or unjust. If it withholds things that a child
desires—it is either because it is not able to grant them, or because the
granting of them would work injury rather than benefit. If it seeks to guide
the tender feet in a way that is not their chosen way, nor the
easiest and pleasant way—it is because a riper wisdom sees that
it is the best way.
True parental guidance, is love grown wise. It is
an imitation of God's government. He is our Father and we are his children.
We are to obey him absolutely and without question. Yet it is no blind
obedience. We know that he loves us with a deep, tender, unchanging love. We
know that he is wiser than we, infinitely wiser, and can never err. We know
that when he denies a request—that the granting of it would be unkindness.
We know that when he leads us in another path than the one we had marked
out—that his is the right way. We know that when he chastens or
corrects—that there is love in his chastisement or correction. We know that
in all his government and discipline—that he is seeking only our highest
good. Our whole duty therefore as God's children, is to yield ourselves to
his will. True human parenthood is a faint copy of the divine parenthood,
and to its direction and guidance, children are to submit.
This subjection implies obedience to the commands of
parents. Thus Paul interprets it: "Children, obey your parents in the Lord;
for this is right;" and again, "Children, obey your parents in all
things; for this is well pleasing unto the Lord." It is right
on moral grounds, and this ought to settle the matter. True manliness never
wants to know more than that a thing is right—that it is duty. Devotion to
duty, at whatever cost, is one of the first elements of heroism. It is right
that children should obey their parents—and no further question need be
asked, no further reason for obeying need be sought.
But it is also well pleasing unto the Lord. He is
watching how every child acts, and he is well pleased when he sees
obedience. This ought to furnish an additional motive, if any were needed.
The thought that doing a certain duty faithfully, causes emotions of
pleasure and approval in the heart of God, certainly ought to be a wonderful
spur and incentive to heroic fidelity.
This obedience is to extend to "all things," the things
that are agreeable, and the things that are disagreeable. Though he may be
unjustly treated, the child is not to rebel. He may know that his parent is
unkind or oppressive, or even cruel—but his duty is not thereby changed.
Wrong on the parent's part—will never justify wrong on the part of the
child. There is only one qualification: children are to obey their parents
"in the Lord." If the parent commands the child to commit a sin—of course it
is not to obey. Herodias was under no moral obligation to obey, when her
cruel and bloody mother bade her ask for the head of John the Baptist. No
human authority is ever binding, when it bids us break a divine law. No true
Christian parent will knowingly ask anything of his child that is not right;
hence the law of parental government requires obedience in all things.
It is told of General Havelock that one day, when a boy,
his father, having some business to do, left him on London Bridge and bade
him to wait there until he came back. The father was detained and forgot his
son, not returning to the bridge all the day. In the evening he reached
home, and after he had rested a little while his wife inquired: "Where's
Harry?" The father thought a moment. "Dear me!" said he, "I quite forgot
Harry. He is on London Bridge, and has been there for eight hours waiting
for me." He hastened away to get the boy, and found him just where he had
left him in the morning, pacing to and fro like a sentinel on his beat. That
father knew just where to find his son, because he knew that he always
obeyed his commands. It is such obedience that pleases God, while it ensures
harmony and peace in the home. The parents are the divinely constituted head
of the family, and it is the children's part to obey.
This requirement implies also honor and respect.
"Honor your father and your mother," says the command. Honor is a larger
word than obey. We may obey a person, whom we do not respect. We are to
honor our parents—that is, reverence them—as well as obey them.
There is no need for any argument to prove that every
child should honor his parents. Yet it is idle to deny that there is on
every hand, a lack of parental respect. There are many children who show by
their words or acts, that their parents are not sacredly enshrined in their
hearts.
I heard a bright young girl, well dressed, with good
manner and good face, say that her mother looked so old fashioned
that she was ashamed to walk with her on the street. I chanced to know a
little about that mother and daughter. I knew that one reason why the mother
looked so old fashioned, and probably lacked something of refinement of
manner, was because of her devotion to the interest of her daughter; she had
made a sacrifice of herself for her daughter's sake; she had denied herself
in dress and ornament, that her daughter might appear well and be admired.
Some young people may read these pages who at times feel
as this young lady did. Have you ever sat down quietly to think over and sum
up the debt which you owe to your old fashioned mother? Look at the matter
for a few moments. Begin with the time when you were a very little baby, as
you certainly were once, however great you are now—and think what she had to
do for you then. She had to nurse you hour after hour, and lie awake many a
night to take care of you. Sometimes you were very cross, though you are so
gentle now; yet, no matter how cross you were—she was as patient as an angel
with you. She wore herself out for you then.
As you grew older she taught you. Did you ever think how
little you knew when you came into this world? You had hands and feet and
eyes and tongue and brain—but you did not know what they were for, or how to
use them. It was your loving, patient mother who taught you to walk
and to talk and to look and to think.
You have been a great deal of trouble to your mother in
your time—but she has borne it all cheerfully for you. She has gone without
many things herself, that you might have what you wanted. She has worked
very hard, that you might receive an education and be fitted to shine in
society among your friends, and be ready for an honored and useful place in
this world.
Sometimes you think she looks very plain and old
fashioned. Perhaps she does; perhaps she is more than a little faded and
worn; but did you ever think that it is because she has given so much of the
best power and energy of her life to caring for you? If she had not chosen
to toil and suffer and deny herself for your sake—if she had thought more of
herself and less of you—she might have been very much fairer and fresher
now. If she had only neglected you instead of herself—she might shine now,
for once her cheeks were as lovely as yours are now. She might have found
more rest and less hard work, if she had not chosen to spend so many hours
in stitching away on frocks, trousers, jackets or dresses for you—making new
and mending the old. She might have better clothes even now to wear, so that
you would not blush to have your friends meet her with you, if she did not
take so much interest in dressing you prettily and richly. It may be that
the little allowance of money that she gets is not sufficient to dress both
herself and you in fashionable array—and that you may be well clad, she
wears the same dress and bonnet year after year.
Never forget where your mother lost her freshness and
youthful beauty—it was in self denying toil and suffering for your sake.
Those wrinkles in her face, those deep care lines in her cheeks, that weary
look in her eye—she wears all these marks now where once there was fresh
beauty, because she has forgotten herself these long years—in loving
devotion to you. These scars of time and toil and pain—are
the seals of her care for you.
Look at your father too. He is not so fresh and
youthful as once he was. Perhaps he does not dress so finely as some of the
young people you see about you, or as their fathers dress. There are marks
of hard toil upon him, marks of care and anxiety, which in your eye seem to
disfigure his beauty. It may be that you blush a little sometimes when your
young friends meet you walking with him, or when he comes into the parlor
when you have company, and wish he would take more pains to appear
well-dressed. Do not forget that he is toiling these days for you, and that
his hard hands and his bronzed face are really tokens of his love for you.
If he does not appear quite so fresh and handsome as some other men—very
likely it is because he has to work harder to give you your pleasant home,
your good clothes, your daily food and many comforts, and to send you to
school. When you look at him and feel tempted to be ashamed of his
appearance, just remember this.
Perhaps he is now an old man, with bent form, white hair,
slow step, awkward hand, wrinkled face and feeble, broken voice. Forget not
what history there is in all these marks, which look to you like marring of
his manly beauty. The soul writes its story on the body. The soldier's
scars, tell of heroisms and sacrifices. The merchant's anxious face and knit
brow, tell of struggle and anxiety. So gluttony and greed and
selfishness and licentiousness write out their record in
unmistakable lines on the features—and so do kindness, benevolence,
unselfishness and purity. You look at your father and see
signs of toil, of pain, of self-denial, of care. Do you know what they
reveal? They tell the story of his life. He has passed through struggles and
conflicts. Do you know how much of this story, if rightly interpreted,
concerns you? Is there nothing in the bent form, the faded hands, the lines
of care—which tells you of his deep love for you and of sufferings endured,
sacrifices made and toils and anxieties for your sake?
When you think thus of what you owe your parents, and of
what they have borne and wrought for you—can you ever again be ashamed of
them? Will not the shame rather be for yourself, that you could ever have
been so ungrateful as to blush at their homeliness? All the reverence of
your soul will be kindled into deepest, purest admiration, as you look upon
these marks of love and sacrifice for your sake. You will honor them
all the more, the more they are worn and wasted—the more they are broken and
their beauty shattered. These tokens of self neglect and self sacrifice,
are the jewels in the crown of love.
This honor is not to be shown only by the young
child living yet as a child in the old home—but by those who are grown up to
full manhood and womanhood. While parents live, there never comes a time
when a child is no longer a child, owing love and honor. Few things in this
world are so beautiful, as the sight of a middle aged man or woman, showing
true devotion to an aged father or mother. In all the story of the life of
President Garfield, there is no one incident that will be longer or more
tenderly remembered, than that little scene on the day of his inauguration,
in which he showed such honor to his aged mother. When the last words were
spoken and the ceremony was ended; when he was now President of this great
nation, and while the hurrahs of the vast throngs were falling upon his ear,
and when the greatest and noblest of the land were pressing forward to speak
their applause—he turned away from all this, from the cheers of a nation,
from the salutation of the great, from the congratulations of foreign
ambassadors who bore messages from kings and queens—to give the first
thought of that supreme hour to a little aged and worn woman who sat behind
him, encircling her with his strong arm and kissing her. It was she to whom
he owed all that he was. In the days of poverty, she had toiled and suffered
for him. She had been both father and mother to him. She had struggled with
adversity and had never spared herself that she might bless his early years.
She was plain and poor and wrinkled and unfashionable—but she was his
mother—and in that hour his loyal, manly heart honored her above all the
world. President Garfield will be honored himself in all the future of our
country; honored for his noble character and his kingly rank among men;
honored for his achievements in the days of war and in the days of peace;
honored for the splendor of soul that shone out from his sick room in those
long, weary days of death struggle; but in all the brilliant glory that
flashes about his name, no one record will shine more imperishably, than the
sentence that tells how in the moment of his supremest exaltation he bent
and printed a kiss of recognition and honor, on the wasted face of his
mother.
His is not the only case. This noble trait is not so rare
as we might think, though it sometimes shines with a luster so brilliant as
to draw all eyes to itself. Life's history is not all written. Love's
noble deeds are not all wrought in the eyes of the world. Much of the
rarest and noblest heroism of love, is never seen by human eyes. There are
other great men who have shown the same reverence and love for parents in
old age or feebleness. There are noble daughters too who forego the joys
offered to them in homes of their own, refusing offers of marriage and
voluntarily choosing to live without its blessing and comfort—that they may
shelter in old age and surround with love's tenderness, the father or the
mother, or both, who filled their youth with sunshine. Here and there
heroism finds its way into record; but the noblest heroisms of life, the
tenderest histories of love, the most sacred things wrought by human
affection, remain unwritten and untold.
Men talk of the wickedness of this world, and surely it
is wicked enough. Sin leaves blackness everywhere. There are horrors of
ingratitude, of baseness, of shame, of guilt—which make earth a stench in
God's nostrils! Yet amid all that is so revolting, there are records of such
sacred tenderness, such holy beauty, such ineffable love—that angels must
pause over them in reverence. These are fragments of the Eden loveliness
which float down upon the dark tide—like lilies pure and white and
unsullied, on the black waters of some stagnant bog. In earth's homes where
the story of Christ's love has been told, there are filial devotions that
are as lovely as angelic ministries.
It was on the cross, that Jesus paid his last tribute of
love and honor to his mother. The nails were in his hands and feet and he
hung there in agony. He was dying in deepest shame. The obloquy of the world
was pouring its blackest tides upon his head. In the throng below, his eye
fell on a little group of loving friends, and among them he saw his
mother. Full as his heart was of its own anguish, it was not too full to
give thought to her. She would have no protector now. The storms would beat
in merciless fury upon her unsheltered head. Besides the bitterness of her
bereavement, there would be the shame she must endure on his account, the
shame of being the mother of one who was crucified on a cross. His heart
felt all this, and there, in the midst of his own agony—he made provision
for her, preparing a home and shelter for her. Amid the dark scenes of the
cross, his example shines like a star in the bosom of the blackest clouds,
saying to us, "Honor your father and your mother!"
If true honor for parents has its seat in the heart—there
is little need for rules or detailed suggestions. Yet a few particular ways
may be mentioned in which children can add to the happiness and blessedness
of the home-life.
They should show their love for their parents—by
confiding in them; not simply by believing in them and trusting their
love and their wisdom—but by making them the recipients of all their
confidences. A wise parent teaches his child from the very beginning—to
conceal nothing from him, to tell him everything, and there is no part of
the child's life, in which he takes no interest. True filial love maintains
this openness of heart and life toward a parent, even into the years of
maturity. There are no other friends in the world who have so much right to
all the confidences of children, as their own parents. There are no others
in whose hearts these confidences will be so safe; they will never betray
the trusts that are placed in them by their own children. There are no
others who will take such deep interest in all the events of their daily
lives.
To the true mother, nothing is trifling which has
interested her child. She listens as eagerly to the story of its
experiences, its joys, its disappointments, its plans, its imaginations, its
achievements, as other people listen to the recital of some romantic
narrative. She never laughs at its fancies nor ridicules anything that it
says or does. There are no other friends, who are such safe and wise
counselors. The children that speak every thought, every hope, every
ambition, every plan, and every pleasure—into the ear of their parents and
consult them on every matter—will live safely. At the same time they will
confer great happiness upon their parents by confiding so fully in them, for
it is a great grief to parents when a child does not confide in them and
turns away to others with the sacred confidences of his heart.
Children must learn self-denial if they would
faithfully do their part. They cannot have everything they desire. They must
learn to give up their own wishes for the sake of others. They must learn to
do without things that they would like to have. In no other way can
home-life be made what it should be. Every member of the family must
practice self denial. The parents make many sacrifices for the children, and
it is certainly right that the children early learn to practice self-denial
to relieve their parents, to help them and to minister to their comfort.
They should also learn thoughtfulness. A home is
like a garden of tender plants which are easily broken or bruised. A
thoughtless person is forever causing injury or pain, not through
intention—but heedlessly. Many, also, who outside are thoughtful, careful of
the feelings of others and quick to speak the gentle word that heals and
blesses—yet at home are thoughtless. But surely there is no place in the
world where we ought to be so studiously thoughtful, as in our own homes.
There are no other friends who love us—as do the home friends. There are no
other hearts that are so much hurt by our lack of thought—as are the home
hearts.
It is reasonable to expect that even quite young
children, shall learn to be thoughtful. And for those who are older, there
certainly cannot be a shadow of excuse for rudeness and thoughtlessness.
There are in every home, abundant opportunities for the culture and display
of a thoughtful spirit. Is any one sick? All the others should avoid noise,
moving quietly about the house, speaking softly, so as not to disturb the
sufferer. All should be gentle to the invalid, ministering in every little
way, brightening the sickroom by their kindnesses.
This thoughtfulness should show itself also toward
parents. Ofttimes they carry heavy burdens while they go about busying
themselves in their daily duties. Their work is hard, or they are in ill
health, or they are perplexed and anxious, perhaps on their children's
account. Bright, happy, joyous youth—never can know what burdens rest
heavily on the hearts of those who are older, who are in the midst of life's
struggles. It would make us gentle even to strangers—to know all their
secret griefs; much more should it soften our hearts toward our friends—to
know what trials they have. If children would remember always—that their
parents have cares, anxieties and sorrows of which they know not—it would
make them gentle at all times toward them. Here is an opportunity for most
helpful ministry, for nothing goes deeper into a parent's heart—than the
sympathy and gentleness of his own child.
It is not great services which belong to
thoughtfulness—only a word of cheer perhaps when one is discouraged, a
little tenderness when one looks sad, and a little timely help when one is
overworked. It may be nothing more than the bringing of a chair when the
father comes in weary, or the running of a little errand for the mother to
save her tired feet, or keeping quiet when the baby is sleeping; or it may
be only a gentleness of manner and tone showing warmth within.
Thoughtlessness causes no end of pain and care, ofttimes
of trouble and loss. It goes stalking through heart gardens, treading down
the most delicate flowers. It is always saying the wrong word and hurting
someone's feelings. It is noisy in the sick room, crude in the presence of
sensitive spirits, and cold and unsympathetic toward pain and sorrow. It
misses the countless opportunities which intimate daily association with
others gives to do really kind deeds, to give joy and help; and instead of
such a ministry of blessing it is always causing pain. Its confession must
continually be "Ah me!
"Oh I did not think," or "I did not mean it," is the poor
excuse most common in many homes. It would be better to learn to think, to
think of others, especially of those who love us, and then to walk
everywhere—but particularly in our own homes, with tender care and regard
for the feelings and comfort of others.
Children should early lean to bear some little share in
the home work. Instead of being always and only a burden to the loving ones
who live and toil and sacrifice for them—they should seek in every way they
can—to give help. It was Charles Kingsley who said: "We can become like God,
only as we become of use." There is a deep truth in his words. We begin to
live—only when we begin to live to minister to others. Instead of singing "I
want to be an angel" it were better if the children should strive to be like
the angels, and the angels are ministering spirits, sent forth to minister
to the heirs of salvation.
Home is the school in which we are first to learn and
practice the lessons of life. Children should learn there—to be useful to
their parents and to one another. They can do much in this direction, by not
requiring unnecessary attendance; and by not making trouble and work for
others on their account. There are some spoiled children who are such
selfish tyrants at home, that all the other members of the family are taxed
to wait upon them. As soon as possible, children should learn to wait upon
themselves, and in measure to be independent of the help of others, so as to
become self reliant and strong. What more painful picture do we see—than
that of sons and daughters growing up idle and selfish in their own homes,
too indolent to put forth an exertion, too proud to soil there dainty hands
with any kind of work—but not too proud to let delicate or already
overwrought parents slave to keep them in dainty food or showy array of
dress! Nothing good or noble can ever come out of such home-life.
Children should make themselves worthy of their parents.
They should seek to be all that the father and mother in their most ardent
dreams, hoped for them. It is a sad thing to disappoint love's brilliant
expectations. It matters not so much if mere dreams of earthly greatness
fail to come true, for ofttimes the hopes of ambitious parents for their
children are only for honors which wither in a day; or for wealth
which only sinks the soul to ruin. Such hopes were better disappointed.
But in the heart of every true Christian parent, there glows an ideal of
beauty of character and nobleness of soul, which he wants to see
his child attain. It is a vision of the most exalted life, lovelier than
that which fills the thought of any sculptor as he stands before his marble
and begins to hew at the block; fairer than that which rises in the poet's
soul as he bows in ecstatic fervor over his page and seeks to describe his
dream. Every true, godly parent, dreams of the most perfect manhood and
womanhood for his children. He wants to see them grow up into Christ
likeness, spotless in purity, rich in all the graces, with character fully
developed and rounded out in symmetrical beauty, shining in this world—but
shining more and more unto the perfect day.
Just here it may be suggested to children that a large
part of what seems to them "fussiness" and needless fault finding on the
part of the parents—is due to concern to have them perfect. Parents
sometimes err through over anxiety or through unwise and irritating and
incessant admonitions—but the sons and daughters should recognize the fact,
that deep concern for their well doing is at the root of even this excessive
carefulness.
There is a story of a great sculptor weeping like a
child, as he stood and looked on the fragments of his breathing marble, the
work of his life and his ripest powers, the dream of his fairest hopes,
which lay now shattered at his feet. With still deeper sorrow and bitterer
grief, do true and godly parents look upon the wreck of their high hopes for
their children and the shattering of the fair ideals that glowed in their
hearts during the bright years of childhood and youth.
If children would do their part well—in return for all
the love that has blessed their helpless years and surrounded them in their
youth, and that lingers still in the days of manhood and womanhood, they
must seek to realize in their own lives, all the sacred hopes of their
parents' hearts. A wrecked and debauched manhood, or a frivolous and
purposeless womanhood, is a poor return for parental love, fidelity and
sacrifice. But a noble life, a character strong, true, earnest and
Christlike, brings blessed and satisfying reward to a parent for the most
toilsome and painful years of self-forgetting love. Parents live in their
children, and children hold in their hands the happiness of their parents.
Let them never be untrue to their sacred trust. Let them never bring down
the gray hairs of father or mother with sorrow to the grave. Let them be
worthy of the love, almost divine, which holds them in its deathless grasp.
Let them so live as to be a crown of honor to their parents in their old
age. Let them fill their declining years with sweetness and tenderness. Let
them make a pillow of peace for their heads, when death comes.
When our parents grow old—they exchange places, as it
were, with us. There were years when we were feeble and helpless, unable to
care for ourselves; then they cared for us. They watched over us; they
toiled and sacrificed for us; they sheltered us from hardship and trial;
they threw around our tender years—love's sweetest gentleness and holiest
protection. Now we are strong—and they are feeble; we are able to endure
hardship and toil—but the faintest breath of storm makes them tremble and
the lightest toil wearies them. This is the time for us to repay them. It is
ours now to show tenderness to them—to shelter them from trial, and to pour
about them as much of love's tenderness as possible.