Amazed All Over Again

Love the Children

Off and on since graduation last May, I have been pondering children and parenting. It is a natural subject for me to ponder, really, since my return home has plunged me into Children's Ministry, and November brought Nora.

One of the biggest things I have been thinking is how tragic---yes, I think can use that word---how tragic a change has occurred in the adult world's attitude towards children. Children are no longer important. In the ancient times, the Middle Ages, and even up until the twentieth century, children have been IMPORTANT. A woman's overall health and strength, and therefore her ability to have healthy and strong children, used to be a weighty factor in the marriage decisions of prospective husbands. Paternity used to matter terribly, and parents used to take the greatest care and trouble about their children's education. Children were seen, not only as the hope of the future, but as the beloved and awe-striking responsibility of the present. They were also the center of their parents' attention.

I am generalizing, of course. There were indifferent parents and even cruel parents (an idea almost, but not quite, beyond my imagination) in those times too. But the general attitude was different. I was reflecting sadly, a few days ago, on a movie in which a young heroine in love made the now-common assumption that, were she to get married, her husband was more likely to NOT want children, than to want them. I have also seen and read and heard stories based on the premise that mothers "can't be bothered" with the children that they do have, and heartily regret having had them, and certainly don't want any more. And I have myself met singles my own age, of both sexes, who confess readily and cheerfully that they do not like children.

How COULD they? How could ANYBODY make such an unnatural, such a monstrous statement, with such ease!? Last Friday night, for the first time, I served in the Nursing Mothers Room at church. There was a special meeting for all the married couples, and we had about twenty young mothers come through the room during the evening. Two I had known in high school, and one of them, now my sister-in-law, brought in the family baby: Nora, who is now the center of her young uncles' and aunts' adoring fascination.

There is not one person in my family who would not gladly and unhesitatingly step between a baby, any baby, and any danger which may present itself, even if that action lead to death. There is no one in my family who ignores babies, or who finds their messes and noises annoying. Not a single one of us would be "bothered" by an infant. On the contrary, we consider children the most amazing source of enjoyment, entertainment, and good productive work.

Who has known happiness who has not been smiled upon by a baby? Who has shown tenderness who has not shown it to a two-year-old's frightened face and huge eyes? Who will curl their lip at a child's terror of the dark? Who will fail to show patience with a little who has hurt his hand? And who can resist the adorable chatter of these small people, with all their eager communications and brimming enthusiasm for a world which to us is old and evil, but becomes fresh, exotic, and beautiful to our eyes again through them?

Oh, I do not know how to account for the adult world! What is WRONG with us all, that we consider our pleasures, our past-times, our work, or---perhaps most ugly of all, because least necessary---our figures, diets, and clothes, more important than these same children? You, my fellow adult, answer me! How dare you? How dare you prefer your golf game or your sports channel, or your books and music, or your job, to your child? How can you fail to enjoy the society of your own flesh and blood? How can you abstain from the opportunity to teach a little girl how shoes are tied, or answer that unfailing question, "Daddy, are bugs glad to be bugs?"

I have been reading Plutarch and Ovid, ancient authors who write without much concern about horrible things, things that I should be ashamed to boast of in my culture. But when I think how they would be ashamed of us, and horrified by us, because of the indifference that we show to children, I am filled with another kind of shame---not for what they were, but for what we have become.

The observation of all this leads me to feel an almost trembling awe and joy in the love that I see flowing from parents whom I know. In the Nursing Mothers Room I saw only mothers whose long slender fingers and smiling lips touched their children with absolute tenderness---a sight that made me want to kiss their feet for very gratitude and respect. They are queens. My sister-in-law, too, who has been a dear friend since high school, I now look up to also as a woman who has passed into the realm where great ladies are made---the realm of motherhood.

And then the children themselves: I think of my little Case, my terrible child, all kicks and screams one moment, all blue-eyed-shining wonder and hugs the next, whom I teach and admonish, and tease, and tickle, and guard and love, and for whom I would gladly die; or Nora, lying like a rosebud wrapped in her petals of pink blankets, asleep in my arms this very afternoon. Her sleeping face was fat and warm and silky-skinned and sweet and beautiful beyond utterance, and when she opened her large gray-blue eyes, they were full of an awakening personality. Her mouth is haunted by smiles. Fairies are her attendants, and the elves are jealous of her.

Beloved reader, love the children, I beg you. Love them always, love them patiently, love them firmly and unselfishly and unindulgently; love them with great tenderness, and plead with God so that He might give you wisdom to lovingly educate them in His law and ways. I have no child of my own, but I love all these with all my soul, and I know it is a gift from God. If you have not this gift, ask for it! If you do not love, learn to love. And, beloved, understand that children are important. They are more important to me, I think sometimes, than my very life. Certainly they are more important than my interests, or even my occupation. If I ever have children of my own, I pray that they will be both interest AND occupation to me.

Biographical Fragment No. 1: My Hour in the Circus Maximus

The way was darker than I expected, like some back stairwell of an industrial building. I found it suddenly hard to believe that just outside lay sunny Rome in September. We gained the top at last and stood about on something half-demolished. I could see into the unroofed tunnels which were once passages beneath the Circus Maximus. Sunlight blazed all around.
Then I felt one of my flashes.
Heat! I was part of a yelling, seething array of people whose sweat rode the close air. We were bored, hot, savage, and hungry. There was bloodlust in my throat—my own throat. Someone jostled my arm; a reek of garlic on their tongue penetrated my fuzzy senses. We shouted louder, screaming for the ragged, sick, and starving prisoners to be brought. Their blood would make amends for—what?—for something: the heat perhaps, or the boredom, or the hunger. It was interesting to watch people die. Yes, shout! Shout louder! We can almost taste the blood, and blood goes well with sweat.
It had been there—a moment when the taste of all those feelings corroded my mouth. I, left gasping, took a ragged breath to redeem the pipe-ways of my being. What ghost or fury inhabited the great Circus? Looking down into the very entrails of the Circus, which were like opened arteries of stone, I thought of those who staggered through them once, waiting for their blood to be spilled in the autumn sun, and I knew that evil clings to places. I turned to go away, because I was afraid.
“You can see the Wedding Cake from here,” a man’s voice spoke behind me. “See?” He pointed to Emmanuel II’s marble monument, across the Forum.
“This place just doesn’t look as big as it did in Ben Hur.” Another voice chimed in, peevish and dusty.
“Did they really film Ben Hur in Rome? I thought the chariot race was done in Hollywood.”
Someone else asked, “How many would this hold?”
“Not enough for the Rose Bowl!”
There was a general laugh, and the knot of tourists scattered.
“Idiots,” I said to myself, savagely. “What do you know? Can’t you feel anything? I’ll put you down there in the dark, with all these crowds screaming. Then you’ll know. We will order up your blood, and—”
Then I heard my own words.

Story Fragment No. 2: The Beggar's Ring

The artisan finished his ring before sunset. Prodesse thought the pearl perfect, but wondered at its setting. “Truly,” he said to himself, “it deserves to be set in better metal than this copper band.” As he was thinking this, a very ragged child approached the house and knocked. The old man opened it.
“Welcome, son,” said the artisan. “Have you come for your ring?” He laid it in the boy’s palm.
“I came for bread,” the beggar replied, much amazed.
“This is better than bread,” said the artisan, with lifted eyebrows, “and it is bread, and will get you bread besides.”
“But how can I pay for it—I have nothing.”
“Nevertheless,” the artisan replied, “I made it for you.”
“Oh, sir!” said the boy. He was silent a moment, then cried again, “Oh, sir!”
“Why not, my son? You see the band is only copper; you need not be afraid to take it any more than you fear a copper coin. It will fit your second finger. See? It is yours.”
The child put it on. His mouth worked as though he wanted very much not to cry, but his eyes were shining. The artisan put his hand a moment on the boy’s head and sent him away, whereupon the beggar went forth dazed, and Prodesse stared at the artisan.
“What have you done, Grandfather? That jewel was worth a king's palace!”
“It was worth more than that, my son. Shall we have some dinner?”
Prodesse was not to be diverted. “But why did you give away your pearl?”
The artisan smiled. “Have I given it away?”
“I saw you put it on the hand of a beggar.”
“It is a very old saying, my son,” the artisan said, dryly, “that things are not always as they seem. See here.” And, stooping, he drew the pearl again from the fountain.
“I did not think there were two such pearls on earth!” cried Prodesse, taking it into his hand.
“There is only one such pearl,” the old artisan replied, a little severely.
“Then, how have you got it again from the beggar’s ring? Is it magic?”
“No,” said the artisan, “but it is a very mysterious pearl.”
“That is true!”
“I must make a new setting for it,” murmured the artisan.
“So the boy got only a copper after all,” Prodesse mused. “No better than he deserved, but still it is a hard thing.” He was thinking of the look in the beggar’s eyes when the artisan had said, “It is yours.” The old artisan did not reply at first, but stood gazing at him with a look that struck Prodesse to his soul. There was sadness in it, and hurt, and a kind of pity.
“The child still has his pearl.”
Prodesse grew more and more astonished. “But how is this possible?”
A corner of the artisan’s mouth twitched. “You must learn to attend more closely, my son. Did I not say that it is a very mysterious pearl? When you are older, you shall have a ring also. Now, please set the table for supper.”
The artisan returned to his settings, and Prodesse went to get their dinner.

Defining "Cute": Exhibit A

I give you Nora Caryl. Need we search further?

This Sums It Up Exactly

Christy, on moving directly from frantic work to finish Year 2, to frantic work to finish Loom documents: “But Rabbit, I wasn’t going to eat freedom! I was just going to taste it!”

Don't wait for your circumstances to change before you decide to be happy, folks. Even if they do change for the easier, they'll be harder again before you know it, and then you'll have to face the temptation of bitterness. Just decide to be happy regardless of circumstances. It ain't easy, but it's good. This year has taught me that. :-)

Story Fragment No. 1

I don't know where it came from, or where (if anywhere) it's going, but this is a fragment from the life of Ardent Jones.

“Mr. …”
“Jones, Sir. Ardent Jones. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Sir. I’ve heard so much about—”
“Ardent, you say? Dear me, that’s rather French. Well, how do you do?”
They shook hands. “My mother’s choice. She was fond of romances.”
“And are you fond of her?”
Ardent paused a moment. The question was so unexpected. “I suppose all men love their mothers, Sir.” He said carefully.
“A weak answer, but expressive. In my day, young man, we did not speak in that singularly deprecating manner of our mothers’ literary tastes. In fact, we said nothing uncomplimentary of our mothers, sisters, wives, and in fact the whole female race, to other gentlemen.” He caressed the word “gentlemen” as it left his lips. Ardent’s ear-tips reddened slightly. The older man saw it and smiled. “I think your mother showed great judgment of character, Jones.”
Ardent, speechless, was grateful that the old goat—as he now mentally described him--next turned away to speak to his aide, who had been standing nearby throughout the exchange; or rather, Ardent thought bitterly, throughout the enjoyment that wealth and age have in victimizing youth and comparative poverty.

It's Over

Today I finished the last class plan of Year 2. My heart overflows with gratitude, for I see that God has brought me through the most spiritually and mentally difficult year of my life (thus far), and it is marvelous in my eyes. Domine, te adoro.

HAPPY!

No, I haven't finished Year 2 yet. But I don't care; I'm still happy!!!!

It's a feeling you get sometimes. :-D