A Parable
I took a little child's hand in mine.
He and I were to walk together for awhile. I was to lead
him to the Father. It was a task that overcame me, so awful was
the responsibility. And so I talked to the child of the
Father. I painted the sternness of His face, were the child
to do something to displease Him. I spoke of the child's
goodness as something that would appease the Father's
wrath. He walked under the tall trees and I said that the Father
had power to send them crashing to the ground struck by his
thunderbolts. 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 take 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 with the
many things I had to teach him. We did not ramble; we
hastened from one spot to another spot. We compared the leaves
of the different trees. While the child was questioning me
about it, I hurried him away to chase a butterfly. Did he
chance to fall asleep; I awakened him; lest he should miss
something I wanted him to see. I poured into his ears the
stories he should know, but we were interrupted often by the wind
a blowing, of which we must 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 and then
his gaze wandered in a dozen different directions. The
Father stretched forth his hand. The child was not interested
enough to take it. Feverish spots burned 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 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 united my steps with the short steps
of the child. We spoke of the things the child noticed. Sometimes
we picked the Father's bright flowers and stroked their soft
petals and loved their bright colors. Sometimes
it was one of the
Father's birds. We saw the eggs that were
laid. We wondered, elated at the care it gave its young. Often
we told stories of the Father. I told them to the child and
the child told them to me again. Sometimes we stopped to rest,
leaning against one of the Father's tree, and letting his
cool air cool our brow, never speaking. And then in the twilight,
we met the Father. This child's eyes shone. He
looked lovingly,
trustingly, eagerly, up into the Father's
face. He put his hand
into the Father's hand. I was for the moment forgotten. I was content.