The Gift of a Child – May 16, 1999
The birth of a child brings joyful noise into a home. And then, a score of years later, the silence after his departure is filled with memories: thoughts, images, and whispers of years gone by. The child, who just yesterday slept in a bassinet, now enters college; the son, who a few days ago scuffed knees climbing trees, now accepts a job across the country; the daughter, who only last week cried in her father’s lap, now has children of her own to console. We lovingly bring children in and, what seems like a few years later, watch them leave. In one great round, parents embrace their children and then love them enough to let them go.
A wise man stated that the most important work you will ever do will be within the walls of your own home.1 What else has such far-reaching and long-lasting effects? What do we think about, worry about, cry and smile about, and remember more? Truly, nothing can be more important—and nothing can be so challenging.
Ask fathers or mothers anywhere, and they will tell stories of great joy, abiding satisfaction, and often of deep heartache. Those precious little ones we love so much turn into teenagers and adults who, like each of us, face challenges and difficulties. We worry, wonder, and cry for them and with them.
At troubling moments, it may help to reflect upon how our hearts overflowed as we reveled in the pure joy of that newborn child. Smile upon a happy memory; ponder the miracle of life and the precious gift of that son or daughter. Think of those many moments of sheer wonder; enjoy the warm reminiscence of her life; envision the child’s potential and contribution ahead. For inside every person is a child who still needs to be loved and cherished.
Sometimes just a change of perspective will help us to rediscover the gift of our child. One mother was rejuvenated by a visit to her parents’ home. For weeks she had struggled to keep a glass door free of her toddler’s handprints, but to no avail. New smudges seemed to appear almost seconds after wiping the old ones away. Then, while visiting her mother, little handprints were discovered on Grandma’s door as well. Just as this mother went to clean the door, Grandma stopped her and said: “Don’t wipe them off. I want to be able to look at them and think of your little one.”
Memories of home and family aren’t only what’s written on the records of births, deaths, and marriages; they begin the instant a child is born and carry on for generations to come. They are little handprints on glass doors. Tear stains on silk blouses. Footprints on freshly mopped floors. Real memories reside in the heart; they live on as the child, now grown, continues the cycle of loving and caring for the gift of a child.
Program #3639
1See The Teachings of Harold B. Lee (Salt Lake City: Bookcraft, 1996) 280.