Three Parables on Raising Children to Know God

I am reading a book on children and these three parables written by Alta Mae Erb are beautifully stated and full of meaning.  I wanted to share them with my readers and let them speak to you as they will:

"I took a little child’s hand in mine. He and I were to walk together for a while. I was to lead him to the Father. It was a task that overcame me, so awful was the responsibility. And I talked to the little child only of the Father. I painted the sternness of the Father’s face, were the child to displease him. We walked under tall trees. I said the Father had power to send them crashing down, struck by his thunderbolt. We walked in the sunshine. I told him of the greatness of the Father who made the burning, blazing sun. And one twilight we met the Father. The child hid behind me; he was afraid; he would not look up at the face so loving. He remembered my picture; he would not put his hand in the Father’s hand. I was between the child and the Father. I wondered. I had been so conscientious, so serious.

I took a little child’s hand in mine. I was to lead him to the Father. I felt burdened by the multitude of things I was to teach him. We did not ramble. We hastened on from spot to spot. At one moment we compared the leaves of the trees, in the next we were examining a bird’s nest. While the child was questioning me about it, I hurried him away to chase a butterfly. Did he chance to fall asleep I wakened him, lest he should miss something I wished him to see. We spoke of the Father often and rapidly. I poured into his ears all the stories he ought to know but we were interrupted often by the wind blowing, of which we must speak; by the coming out of the stars, which we must needs study; by the gurgling brook, which we must trace to its source. And then in the twilight we met the Father. The child merely glanced at him. The Father stretched out his hand but the child was not interested enough to take it. Feverish spots burned on his cheeks. He dropped exhausted to the ground and fell asleep; again I was between the child and the Father. I wondered. I had taught him so many, many things.

I took a little child’s hand in mine to lead him to the Father. My heart was full of gratitude for the glad privilege. We walked slowly. I suited my steps to the short steps of the child. We spoke of the things the child noticed. Sometimes it was one of the Father’s birds; we watched it build a nest, and we saw the eggs that were laid. We wondered later at the care it gave its young. Sometimes we picked the Father’s flowers, and stroked their soft petals, and loved their bright colors. Often we told stories of the Father. I told them to the child and the child told them to me. We told them, the child and I, over and over again. Sometimes we stopped to rest leaning against the Father’s trees, and letting his air cool our brows, and never speaking. And then in the twilight we met the Father. The child’s eyes shone. He looked up lovingly, trustingly, eagerly, into the Father’s face; he put his hand into the Father’s hand. I was for the moment forgotten. I was content."