p. 425 | HOW TO TEACH CHILDREN by Indian Witness

Pacific Press Publishing Company · Oakland, California · May 7, 1894

FromSigns of the Times, Vol. 20, No. 27.

HOW TO TEACH CHILDREN.

By Indian Witness

How to teach children to control their fears and rise above them is a serious problem to most parents. Many children suffer intensely from fear. Sometimes they confess to this, but oftener they are too proud to make it known. Sometimes they know what they are afraid of, but oftener they are seized with a kind of nameless and unreasonable dread, which they cannot make anyone understand about. It is a part of that strange childhood land which grown people cannot enter or even see into. Most parents intend to be patient with timid children, and to deal wisely with them.

"You don't like to be alone in the dark, dear?" says the parent. "Well, then, I'll leave the light burning." "Afraid to walk past the policeman? Nonsense! Well, then, sister will walk with you past the corner."

These are instances of the usual way of treating timidity in children. It is a cheap and prompt way. It removes the present occasion for fear, but it does not remove the cause of fear by striking at the root of the weakness in the child's nature, for the little one continues to weep in the dark, and to tremble at the blue coat of a "cop," until he outgrows childish things. But is there not a better way by which children may be established in those principles which are the foundation of courage?

"What is it, John?" asked a father, who had heard a stifled sob from the trundle bed, as he passed the sleeping room of his young children. "Is anything the matter?" he asked, coming close to the bedside.

"No, papa, not now."

"What were you weeping about? Are you ill?"

"No, I was afraid."

"Do you want me to tell you a story?"

"Yes, please."

So the father sat down on the side of the bed, and in the darkness told the story of the Good Shepherd, how he led his sheep by the still waters, and in the sweet, green fields, and how the little lambs fed and frolicked all day long, and at night one lamb got lost on the lonely hillside. He was all alone in the dark and cold, far away from the fold and the kind mother sheep. But when the Good Shepherd counted his sheep, he only found ninety-nine instead of a hundred, so he knew that one was lost, and he started out to hunt for him. The Good Shepherd did not say that he was too tired to go, or that it was a long, long way, and dark and dangerous; besides, after all, it was only one of the little lambs that was lost, and a very foolish one, who did not know enough to keep close to its mother, and such a silly little lamb was not worth taking so much pains for. Oh, no, the Good Shepherd thought no such thoughts! His heart was full of pity and longing. He hastened to shut up the flock in their warm fold, and he took his staff and went his lonely way out into the darkness of the cold night. He climbed the bleak hillside over the jagged stones, and through the thorny branches, stopping every now and then to listen, and to call to the little lost lamb, for he knew him by name.

At last he hears a faint bleating. It is the lamb—the poor, perishing, almost dying little lamb. The Good Shepherd reaches out his tender hands, he gropes in the darkness, and lays hold of the shivering, trembling little one. He takes him in his arms, and holds him close to his breast, and he folds his mantle about him; then down the bleak hillside, and over the rough way, the Good Shepherd brings home the lost lamb rejoicing.

The story ended, a thrilling silence fell between the father and his little son. Thus was it broken:—

"Do you know, John, who the Good Shepherd is?"

"Jesus."

"And who is the lost little lamb alone in the dark?"

No answer. John had the obduracy usual to the natural heart when it came to squarely owning up his lost estate. The father pressed the matter by another question.

"Is it Dave or Charley, asleep in the other bed?"

"No."

"Well?"

"It is I, papa!" he cried at last with a burst of emotion, flinging both arms around his father's neck and kissing him. Then the little fellow nestled down in the bed, his soul filled with the peace which comes from the confession of God our Saviour.

"Do you care to have me stay any longer?" asked the father.

"No, I am not afraid now."

"Shall I light the lamp?"

"No, I don't want anything now."

Here, then, was a genuine religious experience. The child had felt his need and laid hold upon his Helper; had been empty and alone, and now was full and well-companioned, because he had crept into his Saviour's arms, and felt his tender love.

The father had put his child upon the right principle; he had given him instruction that not only quelled the passing fear, but established him in that faith which can quell all fears, whether of life or death.—Indian Witness.