a parable

In preparing for my talk on Mother's Day (ahhhh!), I've stumbled upon a few gems. The following parable is definitely one of them. I have read and reread it and read it some more. It illustrates the type of mother I want to be.

Harold B. Lee said, "I have a great teacher with whom I live in my home, one with whom I counsel and with whom I pray. Her life has been one of teaching teachers of children. She gave me a parable that to me has great meaning:

I took a little child's hand in mine. He and 1 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 so I talked to the child only 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. I said the Father had power to send them crashing down, 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 a multiplicity of the things I had to teach him. We did not ramble, we hastened from one spot to another spot. At one moment we compared the leaves of the different 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 awakened him, lest he should miss something I wished him to see. We spoke to the Father, oh, yes, often and rapidly. I poured into his ears all the stories he ought to know, but we were interrupted often by the wind a-blowing, of 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 directions. The Father stretched out his hand. The child was not interested enough to take it. Feverish spots burned in his cheeks. He dropped exhausted to the ground and fell asleep. Again I was between the child an the Father. I wondered. I had taught him so many things.

I took a little child's hand to lead him to the Father. My heart was full of gratitude for the glad privilege. He walked slowly. I suited my steps to the short steps of the child. We spoke of the things the child noticed. Sometimes we picked the Father's flowers and stroked their soft petals and loved their bright colors. Sometimes it was one of the Father's birds. We watched it build its nest. 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 again to me. We told them, the child and I, over and over again. Sometimes we stopped to rest, leaning against one of the Father's trees, and letting His cool air cool our brows, and never speaking. And then, in the twilight, we met the Father. The child's eyes shone. He looked lovingly, trustingly, eagerly up to the Father's face. He put his hand into the Father's hand. I was for the moment forgotten. I was content.
—Author Unknown