Show Your Love. Tell It.
By H. M. Brooks
You love your children? I know you do. But the children do not know it. Tell them you love them. The fact that you provide for them food, clothing, pretty toys; the fact that you care for them continually; why, these facts might teach them that you love them, if they comprehended the facts. But they have never felt the keen want of comfortable clothing, the sharp gnawing of hunger unappeased or half-appeased; they have no knowledge of the value of money or of labor, they cannot realize how great is the kindness which keeps their necessities supplied. Do you desire that they should suffer in order that they may acquire this knowledge? Surely not. There is a better way, which time and nature will duly provide. But, for the present, all these things seem to them matters of course; they have never given them a thought. Years hence they will interpret them correctly, but now—now they need your tender kiss, your loving word, your kindly caress, your declaration of love, to show them that you love them. If they do not receive these, and do experience, though only occasionally, the bare toleration of indifference, or the actual repulse, when, glowing with interest, they come to you for sympathy; if they are refused again and again, and yet again, the much-desired favors they ask, and cannot understand the reason of the refusal; if they are often reprimanded—sometimes punished—when they "didn't think of doing any harm;" if they are blamed for shortcomings, and their errors carefully pointed out when they have taken especial pains to do a task well, what must they think—that you love them or that you hate them? Try the Golden Rule. What would you think in like circumstances? Unfrequent favors, surlily or petulantly granted; incessant fault-finding (think how often a child errs), the oft-recurring admonition to "run out of the way," to find amusement, occupation, society, somewhere else; how far would these conditions go to assure you of the love of a superior upon whom you were dependent? What assertions of this could convince you that you were very dear to him, that your welfare and happiness were the prime objects of his existence? Do not expect your children to be wiser than you could be. The natural language of affection they will understand, intuitively. And this exceptional child—the one that is so often wrong, that is so impatient of restraint, that so resents the punishment which yet must be administered; this child that is so ready to think himself the unbeloved one of the family: this child needs special love and special exhibitions of tenderness; he should have devoted to him, alone, little seasons of friendly communion, seasons of giving and receiving confidences, seasons when he is taken near to your heart and made to see and to feel that he has a sure possession there. Then he may be taught to believe that your chastisements, no less than your gifts, are bestowed in love. Then you may reason with him, always lovingly, and he will accept your reasoning; you may exhort him, and he will hear your exhortation; you may warn him, and he will heed your warning. One such exercise will not make him a model of childish virtue, it is true; but each one will help to bring him into unison with you, and that is your aim. And nothing is more lovely than the free and spontaneous expression of affection between parents and children. Yet I have seen people so warped by false ideas of propriety that they look upon all tenderness, whether of manner or of speech, in this relation, and, indeed, in all others, as eminently silly and improper. Once, when my little boy came to me with a kiss, saying, simply, "I love you," a friend who happened to be present, said, "Aha, he has an ax to grind, I suspect." Of course I promptly disclaimed that sort of thing, and explained to her that such manifestations were quite common and sincere between us. I suppose she had never had a similar experience, and yet she had been really a faithful, affectionate, and self-denying mother. One of the most beautiful little incidents that ever came under my observation, occurred in the house of a friend. A relative had written for the young daughter of the family to come and spend a few weeks with her, as there was illness in her family, and she needed some assistance. "We will see what father says," said the mother, after reading the letter. So when the father came in at evening the letter was brought for his perusal, the elder daughter kneeling beside him, intensely interested, and leaning on his knee to hold the light for him, while the younger children clustered near. "Would thee like to go, Sarah?" he asked, smiling, when the letter was finished. "Oh, yes, father," and the eager, childish face, full of hope, was raised to his. "I think thee had better go. Thee can be of use there, and it will be a pleasant trip for thee. But," he continued, after a little pause, "what will father do for lamb-girl and egg-girl when thee's gone?" The expectant face grew doubtful. "We'll manage to get along; the little ones can do those chores, but we shall miss thee, Sarah." The kindly look with which he had been regarding her deepened into exquisite tenderness, beautifying all the rugged features, while the glad eyes of the young girl drooped modestly to the floor at the implied praise of her father's glances and words; the color in her cheeks deepened, and a grateful smile curved her pretty lips. The words spoken were not many nor fine, but the look and the manner of both made one of those pictures which live long in the memory of the beholder. The love that is not told is, to the recipient, as if it had never been, and its material benefits had come from some other source. The very expression of love intensifies its action; the response elicited increases its power and influence; nothing else makes your child so completely your own as the conviction that he is very precious to you. And you cannot afford to loosen your hold upon him; you cannot afford to lose any opportunity to influence him for good. "Precious girl," "darling little son," should be often on your lips; why, they live in your heart, and "Out of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaketh." You may remain undemonstrative, but others will not; and by and by their young hearts, hungering and thirsting for the words, the looks, the caresses you should give but do not, will turn from you to cling to the stranger who does give them. What more natural?