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The Hand of a Child

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Review and Herald Publishing Association · Takoma Park Station, Washington, D. C. · Feb 6, 1908

FromReview and Herald, Vol. 85, No. 6.

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The Hand of a Child

By Gertrude Stevens Leavitt

THE silvery chimes on the Church of Our Elder Brother rang sweet and clear. They were new chimes, and from all parts of the city men and women had gathered to listen to the melody.
A little to one side stood a group of girls, with gay attire, painted faces, and showily dressed hair. They chatted noisily, but all at once a change came over the face of one of them. She gave a half-apologetic little laugh.
“Let’s go in,” she said.
A chorus of sneering “No’s” answered her, but she bit her lips, flushed quickly, turned and walked into the great, solemn church.
For a moment the usher stared at the newcomer, then politely showed her to a seat, into which she sank wearily. For a time she did not lift her eyes; the hush of the holy place seemed to be all-pervasive. As she looked about her, strange faces greeted her, and she felt as if she were quite alone.
The service was beginning. She listened to the music of the great organ, and sat quietly while others rose and sat again.
She seemed not to hear the Scripture reading and very little of the prayer, but she sat with bowed head, so still that one might have thought she slept.
When the pastor began the sermon, she looked up, and her eyes fell on something in front of her. It was the hand of a child. The nails were shelly pink, the flesh was soft and white, and the tiny fingers plump and dimpled—a beautiful hand. It caught and held the attention of the girl.
She glanced at her own hand, lying gloveless on her knee. It was white, too, and soft and pretty. It was covered with many glistening rings, which apparently dazzled the eyes of the girl, for she slipped the shining things into her empty glove. Perhaps she did not want to look at the gems just then, knowing at how great a price she had purchased them.
Again her attention turned to the little hand. Had hers ever been like that? — O, yes, doubtless, when she was small and innocent. Innocent? She shuddered. That time seemed far away now,although the girl was really very young.
What was the small hand doing now? It patted a mother’s cheek. A sob rose in the girl’s throat. She could remember how she used to pat her mother’s cheek, just as the little child was doing now, and in fancy she could see the love light in the eyes of her own mother.
The baby’s hand dropped to the mother’s neck, giving a tiny hug. Again the girl choked back a sob. Yes, she used to hold her dear one close, just that same fond way. Fascinated, she still watched the hand. It was withdrawn, but as it passed, the girl saw on its palm a bright red scar. Once more she looked at her own hands, and felt their stains; but what a difference! The mark on the baby flesh would pass, but her disfigurements—so deep, so glaring—must they always last?
Listen! She hears, as through dim distance, the preacher’s voice: “Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool.”
The old promise which has brought comfort to many a soul now came to this sinning daughter. It must be so—her mother used to read it from the old Bible. If mother and the Bible said it, it must be true. She had never thought much about it before, although she had been taught to read the Bible. But she had been so wayward; she had wanted to see the great world; she had rebelled at mother’s narrow ways, and she had left her home. Three years! The time seemed centuries, now, although before this morning, it had seemed to speed.
“I forgot so much,” she murmured to herself. “I forgot my home and God and mother. Is mother living in the same old house, I wonder? Does she ever think of me? Would she let these hands touch her now? Would she want me to cuddle close to her again and say my evening prayer? Let me see, what were the words?
“‘Now I lay me down to sleep. I pray thee, Lord, my soul to keep. If I should die’—”
“There, I know what I’ll do. I’ll just die, and get away from sin. Could I do it that way? I can’t be good. I can’t get rid of the scars. I want to be good once more, I do! I do! but—”
The service had ended while the girl communed with herself, and the hand of the child slipped into that of the girl, and a baby voice said, softly: “What are you waiting for? Why don’t you go home?”
Why, indeed? The girl had not dared to think of that; but now a great desire filled her heart, and a firm resolve.
“I am going home, right now, darling,” she said, and with a new light in her eyes, she walked from the house of God out into the sunshine, out into a new life, out to the mother who lived and prayed and waited, out into the peace which passeth understanding, and at last out into that moral whiteness which won for her the blessing promised to the pure in heart.—Gertrude Stevens Leavitt, in Union Signal.