Children’s Story

Children’s Story – Molly

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Molly lay in the hammock on the shady end of the porch and scowled at the sun shining between the morning glory leaves. She was usually a happy little girl, and the frown did not come naturally to her face. Now the ugly line between her eyes made her look very unhappy. The whole trouble was that her mother, who was making currant jelly, had asked her to pick a few more currants from the bushes in the garden. The evening before, Molly had thought it was fun to help pick, but now the garden was hot and sunny. Mother, too busy in the kitchen to come herself, wanted three more boxes to fill a kettle. Molly said that she was tired of picking currants, and the more she thought about it, the more tired she grew. She decided that her back ached with bending over so much, though she had not noticed the ache before.

“Next winter, will you want currant jelly with your hot cakes, Molly?” Mother’s voice came from the kitchen. Molly did not answer. “Because if you do, now is the time to get ready for it.”

Molly lay and considered. Was there any use in thinking about winter now, in hot summertime, or in bothering to prepare for it if you did not feel like working?

Suddenly her rebellious thoughts were disturbed by a sharp, high, buzzing sound, very thin, and continuing for some time without a pause. She looked around carefully all over the vines near her head, and finally she discovered three peculiar objects arranged side by side on the wooden shutter of the porch window. They looked like tiny clay tunnels, no larger around than lead pencils, fastened flat to the rough wood and so close to each other that their walls touched. A black wasp appeared to be nibbling at the lower end of one clay tunnel, and as it moved its head from side to side it made the queer shrill buzzing noise. Molly lay very quietly and watched. The wasp was close enough to her head for her to see each movement. Its little black head, feelers, and first pair of legs all together seemed to be working at the edge of the tunnel. She noticed the clay at the edge was darker, as if wet, and that instead of nibbling it away, as she first thought, the wasp was adding to it, pressing and fingering it into shape.

God’s creation always fascinated Molly, and now she wanted to know what the wasp was doing. She had forgotten all about currants and backaches as she sat breathlessly watching it. Firmly clutching in its jaws a round ball of dark mud larger than its own head, the wasp smeared the fresh mud neatly along the edge of the tunnel and patted it into shape.

Then, as the wasp flew away for more mud, Molly dashed into the house to see what she could learn about mud wasps from her encyclopedia. She read that the structure the wasp was building was a mud house in which it would lay its eggs and then seal up the ends. When the eggs hatched, the cocoons would over winter in the mud house until spring, living on food stored during the summer before the eggs were laid. “The wasp does not worry about winter when it comes,” read Molly, “for it has prepared its mud house and is ready for it.”

Molly, thinking very hard, returned to the porch just in time to watch the wasp with another ball of mud. Suddenly she jumped from the hammock and ran into the house. “Mother,” she called eagerly, “where are the berry boxes? I am going to pick currants and help you get ready for next winter.”

Children’s Story – The Worth of a Soul

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By the time Helen was 18 months old, her eyes were a bright blue, and her hair was a gold red. By the time her eyes grew from sky-blue to sea-green, I was certain that she would be a rare beauty. However, Helen’s personality and innate kindness would always outshine her physical beauty.

By the time Helen was three years old, she had already developed an unusual logic that made perfect sense to her of course she must give away her favorite teddy bear to a child who needed it more than she did.

By the time she was in kindergarten, it seemed perfectly natural for her to love the unlovable, including the teacher who struck fear within the hearts of other students.

By second grade, Helen had become the champion of the weak, the hope of the hopeless, and she did it all with a selfless grace that was nothing short of miraculous. By the time Helen was in high school, it was pretty evident that we would be barraged with a house full of teenagers of every shape, creed, and ethnicity. I still have the pictures from one of Helen’s birthday parties. It was an incredible feat of persuasion, just to round up all the kids for a one of a kind picture. It took three snapshots to complete the picture. What an unforgettable sea of grinning faces peers out from those pictures, as though the United Nations had dropped off all its teenagers at our house for the day.

In the fall of her sophomore year, Helen and I found ourselves out shopping the malls for school clothes. I was doing some inventive arithmetic and brainstorming, trying to make our budget stretch into something that would delight and be affordable. At one point, I noticed that a man and a girl were moving straight towards us. The man was dressed in work clothes, and he seemed to be encouraging the rather sad, overweight youngster closer to us. These two seemed to be disagreeing, even as they were almost upon us.

Helen had just finished exchanging greetings with one of her countless, squealing friends, and as she turned around, she came face to face with the reluctant teenager. Faster than the speed of light, Helen’s eyes sparkled with delight and recognition. Her face broke into a brilliant smile, and she shrieked with joy! “Cindy!” she squealed, as she threw her arms around the chubby girl’s neck.

Suddenly, Cindy’s face broke into a beautiful smile, and she squealed right back at Helen. Then they both did this handholding jump around, while grinning and shrieking with delight. Cindy was transformed from a rather sad kid, into the vivacious young girl she truly was meant to be. Cindy and Helen chattered away, totally oblivious to Cindy’s father and me, as we stood amazed. Who was this unconsciously generous, loving daughter of mine? How had God graced my life with something so bright and beautiful? When I turned back to Cindy’s father, I saw his face transformed from frustration and sadness to one of joy.

Cindy had seen Helen, he confided, long before Helen spotted her. She had identified Helen as “one of the popular girls.” As Cindy’s father encouraged her to speak to Helen, Cindy refused. Why would “a somebody,” she reasoned, want to talk to “a nothing”? Cindy’s father had felt helpless to make his daughter believe how precious she truly was. Helen, in one unpretentious act, had given Cindy a priceless gift of unconditional friendship and love.

Cindy’s dad’s eyes shone with pride and gratitude, but no more than my gratitude for Helen. I learned a great lesson that day. I learned that true friendship does not measure another with criticism, because the worth of a soul is not in the eye. It is in the heart.

Children’s Story – Miracle in the Mountains

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Bosnia-Herzegovina is a country on the Balkan peninsula of Southern Europe. Bordered by Croatia to the north, west and south, Serbia to the east, and Montenegro to the south, Bosnia-Herzegovina is mostly landlocked, except for 26 kilometers (16 miles) of the Adriatic Sea coastline, centered around the town of Neum. The interior of the country is mountainous in the center and south, hilly in the northwest, and flat in the northeast. The nation’s capital and largest city is Sarajevo, seated between several high mountains, and was thus the host of the 1984 Winter Olympic Games. Formerly one of the six federal units constituting the Socialist Federal Republic of Yugoslavia, Bosnia-Herzegovina gained its independence during the Yugoslav wars of the 1990s. (<https://en.wikipedia.org> June 2007.)

Driving in much of Bosnia-Herzegovina is at times very dangerous because of the mountainous terrain and narrow roads. These roads become even more treacherous in bad weather. Many of the mountain roads have no guardrails to protect cars from falling off the mountain.

In November 2005, a missionary was driving through the mountains of Northern Bosnia–Herzegovina with a couple of pastors. They were on their way to a conference. The weather was cold and rainy, so they were driving slowly and more cautiously than they would have been in better weather.

As they came around a curve, their vehicle ran across a slippery spot in the road. The car started to slide sideways toward the edge of the mountain. From there, it was a 40-foot drop-off with jagged rocks and a river at the bottom.

As the vehicle began to slide out of control, they all cried out, “Jesus!” The car hit the guardrail with the front bumper, then the side and back of the vehicle hit as it bounced along the guardrail. The impact with the guardrail pushed the car back onto the road.

The missionary and the men with him found a safe place to pull over on the side of the road, then got out of the car to take a look. First of all, they were amazed that there even was a guardrail there. Even more amazing was that the guardrail appeared to be new.

Then they checked out the car. The entire side of the car had hit the guardrail, but they could only find a few scratches on the front and rear bumpers—there was no damage at all to the side of the vehicle. It seemed as though there had been some type of invisible shield across the side of the vehicle protecting them and keeping them from going through or over the guardrail and falling down onto the sharp rocks and into the river.

They remembered Psalm 34:7, which says, “The angel of the Lord encampeth round about them that fear him, and delivereth them.” They know that the Lord miraculously protected them that day, sparing them from injury and possibly even death. They are grateful for the Lord’s promise to watch over and protect those who love Him!

Children’s Story – The Prayer and Faith of a Little Girl

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During the World War, which broke out in Europe in the year of 1914, the soldiers destroyed the property of many people. One of those who suffered loss was a wealthy lady who lived in Russia. She was one of the nobility. Because of her noble life, her friends often called her “The Princess.”

When the soldiers came, they destroyed her home and took all her money, about fifty thousand dollars. Her son was killed, and her son’s wife died of the plague. They left to her care three little girls, one fourteen years of age, one eight, and the other six.

The grandmother with her three grandchildren had to work from morning till night to earn money to buy a little bread and milk. After a while, the work stopped. It seemed to them that they must starve. One day after dinner they were without any food for the next meal.

“We have nothing for lunch tonight,” said the little girl. “What shall we do, Grandmother?”

“The Great Father will take care of us, my darling,” the grandmother answered.

Then they all knelt down and asked God to help them find something for supper.

“Dear Lord, don’t send us just a piece of bread. Send us a whole loaf. For You know, Lord, we need a whole loaf,” was the prayer of the youngest child.

During the afternoon they went about their duties as usual. Evening came, but no food, and they had no money with which to buy any. They set the empty table, and sat down to it in their chairs.

“Shall we thank the Great Father for the food before we see it?” the children asked.

“Yes,” answered the grandmother.

The children believed that God would surely send them food. They folded their little hands and gave thanks.

Just then there was a knock at the door. It was opened, and there stood a man, a friend who had known them when they had plenty. He also had been wealthy, but the war had robbed him of all his wealth. He had come on foot more than eighteen miles, through deep snow, to see them. He had walked the whole afternoon.

“I hardly know why I have come,” he said, as he walked into the room. “But I felt that I ought to visit my old friend.” Then, turning to the children, he said, “Children, you don’t know what I have brought you.”

“Yes, we do!” said the little girl, smiling.

“What have I brought?” he asked.

“You have brought us a loaf of bread—not a piece of bread, but a whole loaf,” she answered.

“Well, well!” said the visitor, “how did you know that?”

“Because we prayed to God to send us a loaf of bread,” the little girl said; “and we asked Him to send us a full, large loaf, for we needed it.”

“Well,” said the gentleman, “that is just what I have brought. Now I know why I came.”

Then out from under his great coat, he drew one of those long loaves which the bakers in Europe make. Surely God had sent him in answer to the prayer of a little child.

Cockleshells, True Education Series, Adapted from “Providences of the Great War,” 33–35.

Children’s Corner – The Dog That Sold a Book

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To 16-year-old Leon, Monday morning meant a new week of ringing doorbells or knocking on doorposts. Selling Christian books door to door was a challenging job, but Leon loved the opportunity to help his customers learn about God.

First, he knelt by his bed and asked for courage and strength.

Then he slipped into his brown slacks, noting the cuff that his landlady had mended. A dog had grabbed him as he approached a house a few days before.

Leon was not afraid of dogs. He and Gyp, his shaggy shepherd, had had many a fierce tussle, and both had learned that the quickest one wins. Dogs were Leon’s friends in selling the little children’s books he always carried with him. Whenever he saw a dog at a house, usually there were children also.

This Monday morning Leon came to a house set far back from the road at the top of a slope of beautiful green grass. It was a long, low, wood-colored home that didn’t seem at all friendly. Yet there was a big black dog lying on the porch, and Leon had the habit of never passing a house with a dog without giving the folks inside a chance to purchase the children’s book he was selling.

As Leon neared the house, the dog took his stand at the top of the porch steps.

When Leon spoke to him, he growled and lunged. But Leon was quicker and gave him a smack on the nose with the corner of his traveling case.

It hurt enough to change the dog’s mind, and the canine went off quite disgruntled.

The woman of the house would not buy the children’s book even though the eyes of her little girl danced with joy at the pictures of Jesus. All Leon’s talking and the girl’s begging were in vain.

“No, we have more books now than I can get time to read to her,” the mother stated firmly. Leon noted two or three well-worn Mother Goose books on the couch.

As he showed the book, he prayed in his heart, Please help me to leave the stories of Jesus for this little girl. But he had to depart without an order, with the children’s book still in his hand.

When he was halfway down the path to the highway, there came the big dog, snarling as he ran. He leaped for Leon’s throat, but again Leon was quicker, and he stuffed the book right into the dog’s open jaws. The dog bit clear through the covers of the book.

Just then the woman, who had come running to help, jerked the dog away by his heavy collar and sent him to the house.

“I’ll take the book,” she said, smiling rather sheepishly. “I guess Dodger wanted to help Linda get it.”

But Leon thought he knew Who really had helped the eager little girl get her book.

<www.guidemagazine.org> July 2007.

Children’s Corner – A Lesson in Thanksgiving

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Sally and Sam had always had fun on Thanksgiving. It had been a time when the whole family got together at Grandma and Grandpa Miller’s house. There was lots of good food to eat, and Sally and Sam got to play with their cousins.

They were disappointed when their mother told them that they would not be able to go to Grandma and Grandpa’s for Thanksgiving this year. “I am afraid we live too far away now, and your father cannot take the time off work,” their mother explained.

Seeing their disappointment, their father said, “I have an idea! Why don’t you invite some of your friends over for Thanksgiving?”

“Everyone is going to have Thanksgiving with their own family!” Sally pointed out with a sigh.

“How about Roger?” Sam asked. “He only has a mother, and she doesn’t make much money. I’ll bet they’d like a nice Thanksgiving dinner.”

“I’ve met Roger’s mother at school,” Sally and Sam’s mother said. “She seems like a very nice woman, but I’m not sure she would like it if she thought we were inviting her because she and her son are poor. I will write her an invitation, explaining that you children are not able to be with your cousins this year, and we would appreciate it if they could join us for dinner. That is true; isn’t it?”

“Is something wrong, Sally?” Sally’s father had seen his daughter’s change of expression. “Don’t you like Roger?”

“The other kids make fun of him, Daddy!” Sally cried. “When they find out he was over for Thanksgiving, they will tease me too!”

“Why do they make fun of him?” her father asked.

“I don’t know. His ears are a little big, so some of the kids call him Roger Rabbit, but mostly, I guess, it is because of how he dresses. He wears the same pants and shirt all week! And his shoes have holes in them!”

“Perhaps his mother cannot afford to buy him new clothes, Sally,” her mother pointed out gently. “Not everyone’s job pays as much as your father’s does.”

“Jesus tells us to do good to others without hoping to get any kind of reward,” Sally’s father reminded. “If the boy is being teased at school, he can use some friends. We will invite Roger and his mother over for Thanksgiving dinner.”

Sally knew her father had made up his mind, but she was not really happy with his decision.

The next day she watched as Sam gave Roger the note their mother had written, and told him that he and his mother were invited over for Thanksgiving. The look of joy that came into Roger’s eyes made her feel slightly uncomfortable.

“Hey, Sally, what is your brother doing with Roger Rabbit?” One of the girls who had been playing nearby came up and asked.

“Father says it is wrong to call names,” Sally answered proudly and walked off before she could be questioned further.

Sally was happy when no one learned that they had invited Roger and his mother to their house. Perhaps no one would ever know, she thought as school let out for the Thanksgiving holiday. It was different with boys, she decided. Boys did not care what they looked like. But girls had to look nice to have friends, and their friends had to look nice too, or people noticed and made fun of you.

On Thanksgiving day, Sally’s mother was glad to have her help. There were potatoes to peel and rolls to make and oh so much more!

“You have done a wonderful job, my dear, and such delicious smells!” Father said approvingly as he lay the last piece of silverware on the table and stood back to inhale deeply. Just then the doorbell sounded, and Father opened the door for their guests.

“Hi, Roger!” Sam called out from his bedroom doorway. “Come on in, and let’s play!”

Roger looked toward his mother and she nodded her head, “Go have fun, dear, and I will get better acquainted with Sam’s parents. And this little girl must be Sam’s sister, Sally? I expect you have been a big help to your mother today.”

“Indeed she has!” Sally’s mother flashed her daughter a smile. “Why don’t you go play with the boys, Sally? Dinner won’t be long.”

Sally stood in the doorway watching the boys as they talked. Approaching, her father asked, “Are there any games the three of you can play?”

“I know a good Thanksgiving game!” Roger explained. “It is easy too. All you have to do is make a list of the things you are thankful for, and the person with the most things wins.”

“I don’t know,” father said hesitantly, but Roger added, “My mother and I play it every year. I will ask her if she wants to play,” and he rushed from the room.

“What can he have to be thankful for?” Sally asked. “He does not even have a good pair of shoes to wear!”

“Perhaps he knows there is more to life than new shoes,” Sally’s father said soberly. “Come you two; let’s play Roger’s Thanksgiving game.”

Paper and pencils were passed out, and the children sat down to list all the things for which they were thankful. This is going to be easy, Sally thought, and wrote down a few items. Then her brow puckered. What else did she own?

“Time is up,” Sally’s father announced as the buzzer in the kitchen went off. “While mother is putting the finishing touches on dinner, suppose we go over our lists and see who came up with the most things to be thankful for.”

The lists were laid out on the table, and Roger’s list was the longest. But as Sally looked at what he had written she felt puzzled. “I don’t understand, Daddy,” she said to the man who stood looking over her shoulder. “How can he be thankful for those things?”

“How can anyone not be thankful for those things, Sally?” her father responded. “Roger has remembered to be thankful for things that many of us take for granted. That is one of the reasons he is so happy all the time. I think we would all be a lot better off if we remembered to thank God every day for the wonderful things He has given us.”

When Sally and Sam’s father gave the prayer of thanksgiving before dinner, he remembered to include many of the things Roger had written on his Thanksgiving list.

Watching Roger as he sat at the table laughing and joking with his mother and the others, Sally began to feel ashamed of herself. Roger knew better than she how to do things God’s way. And that was why Roger, in spite of not having much in the way of physical possessions, was happy.

<www.antelope-ebooks.com> September 2007.

Children’s Story – The Uglies

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Mother stood in the doorway of the living room. “What are you looking at, children?” she asked. “What kind of book do you have there?”

Linda jumped up from the footstool and began to leaf through her school reader that lay on the couch. But Betty Lou and Eddie did not look up. “Oh, come and see these funny pictures!” they said. “Look at this man with the big hands and feet and the crooked nose.”

“Where did you get that book?” asked Mother, taking one glance at the floor, where Eddie lay stretched out on the rug, chin in hands, while Betty Lou turned the pages.

“Under the chair cushion, where we were looking for a lost pencil.”

Mother took another look and then said, “Linda, please go into the garden and bring me the most beautiful flower you can find.”

Then to the younger ones she added, “Let us put the book away and look at something pretty for a while.”

Harold came into the room in time to see Linda bring in a beautiful chrysanthemum. At the same moment his quick eye caught sight of the comic book which Mother had laid on the mantelpiece. At sight of the book and the upturned chair cushion his face turned red, but Mother pretended not to see it.

She held up the chrysanthemum and said, “I want you to look at this lovely flower. Now shut your eyes. Can you still remember what it looks like with your eyes closed?”

Yes, they all agreed they could.

“Our minds make a picture of the things we look at,” continued Mother, “so that we remember them when we can no longer see. If our minds are full of beautiful pictures, our faces will show it. Little by little we become like the things we think about and the pictures we see. Of course we cannot change the shape of our noses or the color of our eyes or hair by looking at pretty things. But kind deeds, sweet thoughts, and beautiful pictures in our minds do make beautiful faces—faces full of sweetness and love.

“God made man in His own image, after His likeness. Do you think He is pleased when people make ugly pictures of what He has created? Do you think He is pleased when we look at these ugly pictures? Most of these comic books show pictured stories of crime and sin that get us to thinking wrong. That is why Daddy and I haven’t bought them for you children. What do you think we should do with this one?”  The look on Mother’s face was serious.

“Let’s burn it, like all the rest of the rubbish,” volunteered Harold, who felt ashamed of himself for bringing the book into the house. As he spoke he tore the book in two and flung it into the fireplace.

“Who’ll strike the match?” asked Mother.

“I will! I will!” said Eddie in his shrill, eager voice. Linda held the matchbox while Eddie struck the match. Betty Lou wanted to help too; so Mother let her set fire to the other half of the book.

As they watched its pages shrivel in the flames and saw the smoke curl up toward the chimney, Mother said, “That is what God will do someday with all the ugly, wicked things in the world. They will be burned up with fire.

“Where did you get that comic book, Harold?” Mother asked.

“At school,” was Harold’s frank answer. “One of the boys brought it and hid it in the basement by the furnace. He was afraid the teacher would find it, so he asked me to take care of it. I wish I had told him right then to throw it into the furnace!”

“That would have been a good idea,” said Mother, as she laid a hand on Harold’s shoulder.

Happy Home Stories by Ella M. Robinson, TEACH Services, Inc., 2005, pages 107–111.

Children’s Corner – A Baby’s Hug

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We were the only family with children in the restaurant. I sat Erik in a high chair and noticed everyone was quietly sitting and talking. Suddenly, Erik squealed with glee and said, “Hi!” He pounded his fat baby hands on the high chair tray. His eyes were crinkled in laughter and his mouth was bared in a toothless grin, as he wriggled and giggled.

I looked around and saw the source of his merriment. It was a man wearing baggy pants, and his toes poked out of would-be shoes. His shirt was dirty; his hair was uncombed and unwashed. His whiskers were too short to be called a beard, and his nose was so varicose it looked like a road map. His hands waved and flapped on loose wrists. “Hi there, baby; Hi there, big boy. I see ya, buster,” the man said to Erik.

My husband and I exchanged looks, “What do we do?”

Erik continued to laugh and answer, “Hi.”

Everyone in the restaurant noticed and looked at us and then at the man, who was creating a nuisance with my beautiful baby. Our meal came, and the man began shouting from across the room, “Do ya patty cake? Do you know peek-a-boo? Hey, look, he knows peek-a-boo.”

Nobody thought the old man was cute. My husband and I were embarrassed. We ate in silence; all except for Erik, who was running through his repertoire for the admiring skid row bum, who reciprocated with his cute comments. We finally got through the meal.

My husband went to pay the check and told me to meet him in the parking lot. The old man sat poised between the door and me. “Lord, just let me out of here before he speaks to me or Erik,” I prayed. As I drew closer to the man, I turned my back trying to sidestep him. As I did, Erik leaned over my arm, reaching with both arms in a baby’s pick-me-up position. Before I could stop him, Erik had propelled himself from my arms to the man’s.

Suddenly a very old smelly man and a very young baby consummated their love and kinship. Erik in an act of total trust, love, and submission laid his tiny head upon the man’s ragged shoulder. The man’s eyes closed, and I saw tears hover beneath his lashes. His aged hands full of grime, pain, and hard labor, cradled my baby’s bottom and stroked his back. No two beings have ever loved so deeply for so short a time. I stood awestruck. The old man rocked and cradled Erik in his arms, then his eyes opened and set squarely on mine. He said in a firm, commanding voice, “You take care of this baby.”

Somehow I managed, “I will,” from a throat that contained a stone.

He pried Erik from his chest, lovingly and longingly. As I received my baby, the man said, “God bless you, ma’am. You’ve given me my Christmas gift.”

With Erik in my arms, I ran for the car. My husband was wondering why I was crying and holding Erik so tightly, and why I was saying, “My God, my God, forgive me.”

I had just witnessed Christ’s love shown through the innocence of a tiny child who saw no sin, who made no judgment; a child who saw a soul, and a mother who saw a suit of clothes. I was a Christian who was blind, holding a child who was not. I felt it was God asking, “Are you willing to share your son for a moment?” when He shared His for all eternity. The ragged, old man, unwittingly, had reminded me, “To enter the Kingdom of God, we must become as little children.” (Matthew 18:3.)

Children’s Corner – Carl’s Garden, Part I

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Carl was a quiet man. He did not talk much, but he would always greet you with a big smile and a firm handshake. Even after living in our neighborhood for over 50 years, no one could really say they knew him very well. About the only thing we knew was that, before his retirement, he took the bus to work each morning.

The lone sight of him walking down the street often worried us. He had a slight limp from a bullet wound received in World War II. Watching him, we worried that although he had survived World War II, he may not make it through our changing, uptown neighborhood with its ever-increasing, random violence, gangs, and drug activity.

When Carl saw the flyer at our local church asking for volunteers to care for the gardens behind the minister’s residence, he responded in his characteristically unassuming manner. Without fanfare, he just signed up.

He was well into his 87th year when the very thing we had always feared finally happened. He was just finishing his watering for the day when three gang members approached him. Ignoring their attempt to intimidate him, he simply asked, “Would you like a drink from the hose?”

The tallest and toughest-looking of the three said, “Yeah, sure,” with a malevolent, little smile. As Carl offered the hose to him, the other two grabbed Carl’s arm, throwing him down to the ground. As the hose snaked crazily over the ground, dousing everything in its way, Carl’s assailants stole his retirement watch and his wallet, and then fled. Carl tried to get himself up, but he had been thrown down on his bad leg. He lay there trying to gather himself as the minister came running to help him. Although the minister had witnessed the attack from his office window, he could not get to the garden fast enough to stop it.

“Carl, are you okay? Are you hurt?” the minister kept asking as he helped Carl to his feet.

Carl just passed a hand over his brow and sighed, shaking his head. “Just some punk kids. I hope they will wise-up someday.”

His wet clothes clung to his slight frame as he bent to pick up the hose. He adjusted the nozzle again and started to water. Confused and a little concerned, the minister asked, “Carl, what are you doing?”

“I have to finish my watering. It has been very dry lately,” came the calm reply.

Satisfying himself that Carl really was all right, the minister could only marvel. Carl was a man from a different time and place.

A few weeks later the three returned. Just as before, their threat was unchallenged. Carl again offered them a drink from his hose. This time they did not rob him. They wrenched the hose from his hand and drenched him head to foot in the icy water. When they had finished their humiliation of him, they sauntered off down the street, throwing catcalls and curses, falling over one another laughing at the hilarity of what they had just done.

Carl just watched them. Then he turned toward the warmth-giving sun, picked up his hose, and went on with his watering.

The summer was quickly fading into fall, and Carl was doing some tilling when he was startled by the sudden approach of someone behind him.

To be continued . . .

Children’s Corner – Carl’s Garden, Part II

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Carl was doing some tilling in his garden at the church when he was startled by the sudden approach of someone behind him. He stumbled and fell into some evergreen branches. As he struggled to regain his footing, he turned to see the tall leader of his summer tormentors reaching down for him. He braced himself for the expected attack.

“Don’t worry old man; I’m not gonna hurt you this time.” The young man spoke softly, still offering his tattooed and scarred hand to Carl. As he helped Carl get up, the young man pulled a crumpled bag from his pocket and handed it to Carl.

“What is this?” Carl asked.

“It’s your stuff,” the younger man explained. “It’s your stuff back. Even the money in your wallet.”

“I don’t understand,” Carl said. “Why would you help me now?”

The giver shifted his feet, seeming embarrassed and ill at ease. “I learned something from you,” he said. “I ran with that gang and hurt people like you. We picked you because you were old, and we knew we could do it. But every time we came and did something to you, instead of yelling and fighting back, you tried to give us a drink. You didn’t hate us for hating you. You kept showing love against our hate.” He stopped for a moment. “I couldn’t sleep after we stole your stuff, so here it is back.” He paused for another awkward moment, not knowing what more there was to say. “That bag’s my way of saying thanks for straightening me out, I guess.” And with that, he walked off down the street.

Carl looked down at the sack in his hands and gingerly opened it. He took out his retirement watch and put it back on his wrist. Opening his wallet, he checked for his wedding photo. He gazed for a moment at the young bride who still smiled back at him from all those years ago.

He died one cold day after Christmas that winter. Many people attended his funeral in spite of the weather. In particular, the minister noticed a tall, young man whom he did not know sitting quietly in a distant corner of the church. The minister spoke of Carl’s garden as a lesson in life. In a voice made thick with unshed tears, he said, “Do your best and make your garden as beautiful as you can. We will never forget Carl and his garden.”

The following spring, another flyer went up on the church bulletin board. It read: “Person needed to care for Carl’s garden.”

The flyer went unnoticed by the busy parishioners until one day when a knock was heard at the minister’s office door. Opening the door, the minister saw a pair of scarred and tattooed hands holding the flyer. “I believe this is my job, if you’ll have me,” the young man said. The minister recognized him as the same young man who had returned the stolen watch and wallet to Carl. He knew that Carl’s kindness had turned this man’s life around.

As the minister handed him the keys to the garden shed, he said, “Yes, go take care of Carl’s garden and honor him.”

To be concluded …