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WintersA frail old man went to live with his son, daughter-in-law, and four-year-old grandson. The old man's hands trembled, his eyesight was blurred, and his step faltered. The family ate together at the table. But the elderly grandfather's shaky hands and failing sight made eating difficult. Peas rolled off his spoon onto the floor. When he grasped the glass, milk spilled on the tablecloth. The son and daughter-in-law became irritated with the mess. "We must do something about Grandfather," said the son. "I've had enough of his spilled milk, noisy eating, and food on the floor." So the husband and wife set a small table in the corner. There Grandfather ate alone while the rest of the family enjoyed dinner. Since Grandfather had broken a dish or two, his food was served in a wooden bowl. When the family glanced in Grandfather's direction, sometimes he had a tear in his eye as he sat alone.
Still, the only words the couple had for him were sharp admonitions when he dropped a fork or spilled food. The four-year-old watched it all in silence. One evening before supper, the father noticed his son playing with wood scraps on the floor. He asked the child sweetly, "What are you making?" Just as sweetly, the boy responded, "Oh, I am making a little bowl for you and Mama to eat your food in when you grow up." The four-year-old smiled and went back to work. The words so struck the parents that they were speechless. Then tears started to stream down their cheeks. Though no word was spoken, both knew what must be done.
That evening the husband took Grandfather's hand and gently led him back to the family table. For the remainder of his days he ate every meal with the family. And for some reason, neither husband nor wife seemed to care any longer when a fork was dropped, milk spilled, or the tablecloth soiled. Children are remarkably perceptive. Their eyes ever observe, their ears ever listen, and their minds ever process the messages they absorb. If they see us patiently provide a happy home atmosphere for family members, they will imitate that attitude for the rest of their lives. The wise parent realizes that every day the building blocks are being laid for the child's future. Let's be wise builders.
Through the living room window I watched our fifteen-year-old son, Jay, trudge down the walk toward school. I was afraid that he might again head out into the snow-blanketed fields to hunt for his missing beagle, Cricket. But he didn't. He turned, waved, and then walked on, shoulders sagging. Ten days had passed since that Sunday morning when Cricket did not return from his usual romp in the fields. Jay had spent that afternoon searching the countryside for his dog. At times during those first anxious days, one or another of us would rush to the door thinking we'd heard a whimper. By now my husband, Bill, and I were sure Cricket had been taken by a hunter or struck by a car. But Jay refused to give up. The previous evening, as I stepped outside to fill our bird feeder, I heard my son's plaintive calls drifting over the fields near us. At last he came in, tears in his blue eyes, and said, "I know you think I'm silly, Mom, but I've been asking God about Cricket and I keep getting the feeling that Cricket's out there somewhere."
Although we all attended church regularly, Bill and I often wondered where Jay got his strong faith. Perhaps the blow of losing a much-loved older brother in an auto accident when Jay was six turned him to the Lord for help. I wanted to hold Jay close and tell him that he could easily get another dog. But I remembered too well the day four years before when we brought him his wriggling black-white-and-brown puppy. The two of them soon became inseparable and, although Cricket was supposed to sleep in the garage, it wasn't long before I'd find him peacefully snuggled on the foot of Jay's bed.
However, that night I did tell Jay that I felt there was such a thing as carrying hope too far. Temperatures were very low, and I felt sure no lost animal could have survived. "Mom," he said, "I know it seems impossible. But Jesus said that a sparrow doesn't fall without God knowing it. That must be true of dogs, too, don't you think?" What could I do but hug him? The next day, after sending him off to school, I drove to my real estate office, where I forgot all about missing dogs in the hustle of typing up listings. At two o'clock, the telephone rang. It was Jay. "They let us out early, Mom--a teachers' meeting. I thought I'd hunt for Cricket."
My heart twisted. "Jay," I said, trying to soften the irritation in my voice, "please don't put yourself through that any more. The radio here says it's below freezing, and you know there's no chance of--" "But Mom," he pleaded, "I have this feeling. I've got to try." "All right," I conceded. After our phone call, he took off through the field where he and Cricket used to go. He walked about a half-mile east and then heard some dogs barking in the distance. They sounded like penned-up beagles. So he headed in that direction. But then, for a reason he couldn't determine, he found himself walking away from the barking.
Soon Jay came to some railroad tracks. He heard a train coming and stopped to watch it roar by. Wondering if the tracks would be hot after a train went over them, he climbed up the embankment and felt them. They were cold as ice. Now he didn't know what to do. He pitched a few rocks and finally decided to walk back down the tracks toward where he had heard the dogs barking earlier. As he stepped down the ties, the wind gusted and some hunters' shotguns echoed in the distance. Then everything became quiet. Something made Jay stop, dead still and listen. From a tangled fence row nearby came a faint whimper.
Jay tumbled down the embankment, his heart pounding. At the fence row he pushed some growth apart to find a pitifully weak Cricket, dangling by his left hind foot, caught in the rusty strands of the old fence. His front paws barely touched the ground. The snow around him was eaten away. It had saved him from dying of thirst. Although his left hind paw would later require surgery, Cricket would survive. My son carried him home and phoned me ecstatically. Stunned, I rushed to the house. There in the kitchen was a very thin Cricket lapping food from his dish with a deliriously happy fifteen-year-old kneeling next to him. Finishing, Cricket lookup up at Jay. In the little dog's adoring eyes I saw the innocent faith that had sustained him through those arduous days, the trust that his master would come. I looked at my son who, despite all logic, went out with that same innocent faith and, with heart and soul open to his Master, was guided to Cricket's side.
It was Molly's job to hand her father his brown paper lunch bag each morning before he headed off to work. One morning, in addition to his usual lunch bag, Molly handed him a second paper bag. This one was worn and held together with duct tape, staples, and paper clips. "Why two bags?" her father asked. "The other is something else," Molly answered.
"What's in it?" "Just some stuff. Take it with you." Not wanting to hold court over the matter, he stuffed both sacks into his briefcase, kissed Molly and rushed off. At midday, while hurriedly scarfing down his real lunch, he tore open Molly's bag and shook out the contents: two hair ribbons, three small stones, a plastic dinosaur, a pencil stub, a tiny sea shell, two animal crackers, a marble, a used lipstick, a small doll, two chocolate kisses, and 13 pennies.
The busy father smiled, finished eating, and swept the desk clean - into the wastebasket - leftover lunch, Molly's junk and all. That evening, Molly ran up behind him as he read the paper. "Where's my bag?" "What bag?" "You know, the one I gave you this morning." "I left it at the office. Why?"
"I forgot to put this note in it," she said. "And, besides, those are my things in the sack, Daddy, the ones I really like - I thought you might like to play with them, but now I want them back. You didn't lose the bag, did you, Daddy?" "Oh, no," he said, lying. "I just forgot to bring it home. I'll bring it tomorrow." While Molly hugged her father's neck, he unfolded the note that had not made it into the sack: "I love you, Daddy."
Molly had given him her treasures. All that a 7-year-old held dear. Love in a paper bag, and he missed it - not only missed it, but had thrown it in the wastebasket. So back he went to the office. Just ahead of the night janitor, he picked up the wastebasket and poured the contents on his desk. After washing the mustard off the dinosaurs and spraying the whole thing with breath-freshener to kill the smell of onions, he carefully smoothed out the wadded ball of brown paper, put the treasures inside and carried it home gingerly, like an injured kitten. The bag didn't look so good, but the stuff was all there and that's what counted.
After dinner, he asked Molly to tell him about the stuff in the sack. It took a long time to tell. Everything had a story or a memory or was attached to dreams and imaginary friends. Fairies had brought some of the things. He'd given her the chocolate kisses; she'd kept them for when she needed them. "Sometimes I think of all the times in this sweet life," he mused, "when I must have missed the affection I was being given. A friend calls this 'standing knee deep in the river and dying of thirst." We should all remember that it's not the destination that counts in life, but the JOURNEY. That journey with the people we love is all that really matters. Such a simple truth so easily forgotten.
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Thank you..Peace to all..Winters Child
