Something To Take With You – Sunday, May 09, 1982
A young boy known for behavior problems was pushed from one foster home to another until one family was found who kept him for many years. With this family he became obedient, responsible, and a good student in school. But at last, the day came when even they could keep him no more, and he was to be moved again. On his final day at school, he was rude, destructive, breaking crayons and throwing them, much unlike the boy he had become. By the end of the day his teacher was exasperated, and when she saw him out in the schoolyard digging, she ran to confront him. “What are you doing?” she asked, as he hid a small box behind him. Finally, he showed her. He was doing no wrong. The box was simply full of soil, earth to take with him from the place he’d been happy. He was carrying away a part of the only real home he had ever known.
We grow up, leaving our childhood homes, and like this boy, take something with us. It may not be as tangible as a box of dirt, but it is just as real. It is the knowledge that somewhere there are people to whom our smallest triumph or frustration mattered. In a world that is largely indifferent to our cries, once there was a mother who noticed skinned knees and slivers. In a world that passes over our victories, once there was one who rejoiced with us at the first shoe tied, the first speech given. It is inevitable that we pass from the serenity of a childhood home to the disillusionments of the world, but those who have had a loving mother carry with them an island of safety in the soul.
A mother, after all, can make her children feel secure in a life that is dangerous. She can make them feel forgiven in a life eager to bare their faults. She can make them feel confident even when life bests them with problems.
So, though we don’t carry it in a box like the foster boy, we do leave home with memories and mementos. We take with us the comfort of parents who gave us a sense of joy even while they knew about world calamities; a mother who believed we were beautiful even though she saw our blemishes; a home that seemed safe even when the wind blew. Across the widening years these gifts to us from family, from mother, continue to nourish, providing inner security where little else can ever be secure.
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May 09, 1982
Broadcast Number 2,751