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.