SYMPATHY WITH THE CHILDREN by Mrs. L. D. Avery-Stuttle

Pacific Press Publishing Company · Oakland, California · Mar 23, 1904

FromSigns of the Times, Vol. 30, No. 12.

SYMPATHY WITH THE CHILDREN.

By Mrs. L. D. Avery-Stuttle

BY MRS. L. D. AVERY-STUTTLE.

OVER across the way the badge of sorrow and mourning is hanging on my neighbor's door, and fluttering in the idle wind. Without, all is astir; the wheels of traffic are moving as lively as ever. The teamster shouts to his horses; the children play in the streets; the man of business hurries to his office, while the shriek of the locomotive and the hum of commerce proclaim the fact that the world is moving on.

But inside the little house, how different! Everything is at a standstill. Grief sits upon every face. Instead of merry voices, are heard only the hushed accents of woe. The light of the household has gone out, and grief lays her paralyzing fingers on heart and brow. In the darkened room lies a little child. A week ago his merry laugh brought life and light into the home.

"O, how I loved him, my darling boy!" moans the white-faced mother; "but I fear I never made him understand it,—and now it is too late. Don't you remember the day he came home from school, crying over his sums, father? It was only one little week ago. Yes, O, yes; too well I remember his asking me to help him, while his voice trembled with childish pain, and his sweet eyes were full of tears; but I only laughed at him, and called him a baby; so he finally went to grandma for comfort and sympathy, dear little fellow." God pity the fathers and mothers in whose hearts remorse must be added to the cup of sorrow.

Every human heart responds to true, unaffected sympathy, I care not how hardened the heart may be. And especially is the fresh and innocent heart of childhood keenly sensitive and highly susceptible to it. Even the dullest child seems to understand the sweet language of love, and to respond to it.

Years ago I was teaching in a country school. I well remember that among my pupils was a little girl almost an imbecile. Yet poor Maggie was very affectionate, and always appreciated every little kindness and every expression of sympathy which I offered her. "Well," says some one complacently, "I can't understand the careless neglect of some parents. Now my children never ask me for assistance in any way, without my cheerfully granting it. I love my children!"

Yes; but how about the children of somebody else! When little Zeb. McGee, whom everybody calls "Ragged Zeb.," fell from your cherry tree last summer, as he was filling his hungry little stomach with your choice juicy fruit, didn't you declare it served him right, tho you knew the fall had hurt the poor child badly? And didn't you drive him away roughly, and threaten him with the police, until he ran off, limping and whimpering in the very abandon of misery?

"Poor little fellow! I've no doubt he was hungry," said your more sympathetic wife.

"Dirty little thief! better not let me catch him in my cherry tree again!"

Ah! is this the spirit of Him who came to seek and to save the lost? My brother, you and I must learn the lesson of unselfishness so completely that our love will take in the whole miserable, sin-sick, suffering, hungry world, or we can never enter that country whose inhabitants know not of selfishness.

And it is not enough that we sympathize with the little ones in their childish griefs. They need our love and encouragement as much in their ambitions and aspirations as in their sorrows. When Willie comes home from school bringing a little picture he has made, and proudly holds it up for your inspection and commendation, don't laugh at him, and make fun of his work; encourage the boy,—and, indeed, he would not resent criticism, if kindly and courteously given,—he will profit by it. Don't laugh at Mary because she has an ambition to be a writer,—don't! And don't tell her how much better you could do at her age, or how much better some other little girl can do. Sympathize with her aspirations, and wisely and gently guide her ambitions in the right channel. If I shall ever see any soul over in the kingdom of God who has been saved through the humble instrumentality of my poor pen, I shall lead that soul to my dear parents first of all, and bid him thank them for encouraging me in my childhood to make a right use of the talent God so kindly gave me.

Then, there are the plain children. Frankie has a freckled face; at school the children laugh at him, and one pretty little girl, with a complexion like a lily, makes his freckles the constant butt of ridicule. One night he came home actually crying. One of the older children told his mother what the trouble was, for Frankie could not be induced to speak—he dreaded to call attention again to his freckles—and what did his mother do? how did she proceed to comfort her sensitive boy?—O, she laughed at him, and called him a silly child.

Unwise mother! no wonder that Frankie is getting to be a disagreeable boy, and that his parents complain that they can not manage him. One day his father, in a most unnatural spirit of teasing, called him "Frankie Freckle," and then, because he retaliated, whipped him for being saucy!

Foolish father! If Frankie does not bring down your gray hairs with sorrow to the grave, you will surely have to change your tactics, and make haste about it.

But all fathers and mothers, I am rejoiced to say, are not so unwise.

Little Lizzie has the misfortune of being cross-eyed. Of course this subjects her to a great deal of humiliation, and her defective eyesight causes her much trouble. But Lizzie has learned to bear her misfortune bravely, because she finds at home a refuge and sweet, tender sympathy. What if her eyes do look badly? Why, her own mama actually kisses them and calls them "dear little eyes!"

But if there is any one who demands a most generous share of sympathy, it is the sickly child. Some member of the family is almost sure to misunderstand him. Instead of sympathy, he gets harsh words and sometimes even punishment.

"Mother, can't you make Sadie help me with the dishes?"

"Go on, Sadie," echoes the impatient voice of the mother in tones of command. "Hurry up and help Milly with her work. Really, you are so slow, child, you try me terribly. I sincerely trust you, aren't lazy!"

"That's just what she is, ma," replies Milly, a plump, rosy little maid, the picture of health. "Sadie always tries to get out of the work if she can."

Meantime, poor Sadie, with tears in her dull eyes, and a flush on her pale cheeks, hurries to the kitchen table as fast as the pain in her side will let her. Poor child! the pain in her side hurts sorely, but the pain in her heart hurts worse.

Again I say, "Foolish mother!"

What has been said about children applies equally to those of riper years, who are indeed only boys and girls "grown tall."

O my brother! my sister! what the world needs to-day more than anything else, is not money, or grand houses, or splendid equipage, or fine libraries. O, no! this sad old world is weary; it is heartsick; it is waxing old like a garment; and its crying need is for sympathy,—sympathy that will reach as far as the pocket-book, if necessary,—sympathy that is sincere and all-embracing.

The key to all the troubles that ever arise in the home life, or in any other, for that matter, is selfishness; in other words, lack of sympathy for others. If we have sympathy in our hearts, it is verily impossible not to manifest it, and it is this manifestation which brings happiness and joy with it.

Then let us include in our love and prayers and tender sympathy, the whole sorrowing world. This is Christlike; and nothing less than this is Christian.

'Twas sympathy that brought the Christ From far-off heaven's eternal throne To this dark world to die for man,— 'Twas sympathy and love alone.