My grandmother kept a book of clippings, sayings, recipes and such. Things that she wanted to pass on to our generation. This is from that book. The author is still unknown but the story has been named
“The Three Parables”
This story demonstrates how we as humans tend to learn different teaching styles when it comes to religion.
My mother would claim that as children they were taught the law of the world by the first parable. I’m sure this method was probably how grandma had been introduced to the concept.
The grandchildren claim that grandma taught them by the third parable.
I believe that as grandma got older and wiser, she learned that life is very short and since we are only here for a limited time. We should enjoy the experience and not burden our minds with worry and fear.
I took a little child’s hand in mine. He and I 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. I talked to the little child of the
Father. I painted the sternness of the Father’s face were the child to dis-
please Him. We walked under tall trees. I said the Father had power
to send them crashing down, struck by His thunderbolts. “VVe walked in
the sunshine. I told him the greatness of the Father who made the burn-
ing, 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 put his hand in the Father’s hand. I was
between the child and the Father. I wondered. I had been so conscientious,
I took a little child’s hand in mine. I was to lead him to the Father.
I felt burdened by the multitude of things I was to teach him. We did
not ramble; we hastened on from spot to spot. At one moment we com-
pared 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 wakened
him, lest he should miss something I wanted him to see. We spoke of
the Father often and rapidly. I poured into his ears all the stories he
ought to know. But we were interrupted often by the coming of the
stars, which we must needs study; by the gurgling brook, which we
must trace to its source.
And then in the twilight we met the Father. The child merely glanced
at Him. The Father stretched out His hand, but the child was not inter-
ested enough to take it. Feverish spots burned on his cheeks. He dropped
to the ground exhausted and fell asleep. Again I was between the child
and the Father. I wondered. I had taught him so many, many things.
I took a little child’s hand in mine to lead him to the Father. My
heart was full of gratitude for the glad privilege. We walked slowly.
I suited my steps to the short steps of the child. We spoke of the things
the child noticed. Sometimes it was one of the Father’s birds; we watched
it build its nest, we saw the eggs that were laid. We wondered, later, at
the care it gave its young. Sometimes we picked the Father’s flowers,
and stroked their soft petals and loved their bright colors. Often we
told stories of the Father. I told them to the child and the child told
them to me. We told them, the child and I, over and over again. Some-
times we stopped to rest, leaning against the Father’s tree, and letting
His air cool our brows, and never speaking.
And then in the twilight we met the Father. The child’s eyes shone.
He looked up lovingly, trustingly, eagerly into the Father’s face; he put
his hand into the Father’s hand. I was for the moment forgotten. I was
From Edith Mixons scrapbook