I Took a Little Child's Hand in Mine...
Updated: Oct 29, 2019
I took a little child’s hand in mine. She and I were to walk together for a while. I was to lead her to the Father. It was a task that overcame me. So awful was the responsibility. I talked to the little child only of the Father. I painted the sternness of the Father’s face. We walked under tall trees. I said, “The Father has power to send them crashing down, struck by His thunderbolts.” We walked in the sunshine. I told her of the greatness of the Father, who made the burning and blazing sun. In the twilight we met the Father. The child hid behind me. The child was afraid. She would not look up at the face, so loving. She remembered my picture. She would not put his hand in my Father’s hand. I was between the Father and the child. I wondered. I had been so serious and conscientious.
I took the little child’s hand in mine. I was to lead her to the Father. I felt burdened by the multitude of things I was supposed to teach her. We did not ramble. We hastened on from spot to spot. At one moment, we compared the leaves of the trees; the next moment, we were examining the bird’s nest. While the child was questioning me about it, I drew her away to chase the butterfly. If she chanced to fall asleep, I would awaken her, lest she should miss something. We spoke of the Father often and rapidly. I poured into his ears all of the stories I wished her to know. We were often interrupted by the wind blowing, of which we must speak, or the coming of the stars, which we must study, or the gurgling of the brook, which we must trace to its source. And then in the twilight, we met the Father. The child merrily glanced at Him. The Father stretched out His hand, but the child was not interested enough to take it. Feverish spots burned on her cheeks, she dropped exhausted to the ground, and fell asleep. Again, I was between the Father and the child. I wondered. I had taught her so many, many things.
I took a little child’s hand in mine to lead her to the Father. My heart was full of gratitude for the glad privilege. We walked slowly. I suited myself for the short steps of the child. We spoke of the things the child noticed. One time it was one of the Father’s birds. We watched it build its nest, and 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. In the twilight, we met the Father. The child’s eyes shone. She looked up lovingly, trustingly, and eagerly into the Father’s face. She put her hand in the Father’s hand. I was, for the moment, forgotten. I was content. ---- Author Anonymous