Heaven's Special Child

A meeting was held quite far from Earth!
"It's time again for another birth."
Said the Angels to the Lord above,
"This Special Child will need much love.

"His progress may be very slow
Accomplishment he may not show
And he'll require extra care
From all the folks he meets down there.

"He may not run or laugh or play;
His thoughts may seem quite far away.
In many ways he won't adapt
And he'll be known as handicapped.

So let's be careful where he's sent
We want his life to be content.
Please, Lord, find the parents who
Will do a special job for You!

They will not realise right away
The leading role they're asked to play.
But with this child sent from above
Comes stronger Faith and richer love!

"And soon they'll know the privilege given
In caring for their gift from Heaven.
Their precious charge so meek and mild
Is Heaven's very special child!"

--by Edna Massimilla

Absorbed in his own minor tribulations of coin and conquest, the adult too often forgets that youth is a jarring time, full of excruciating first experiences and full-blown tragedies. It is a pimple on the cheek which everyone will see with distaste; it is the ultimate disappointment, a broken promise by a parent. It is a training ground for adulthood, a place and time to try for independence, a place and time to try and fail and succeed.

He was only three years old when his father died. "So that," he said, "I grew up under the care of my blessed mother. She developed my early talent for drawing, and encouraged me in my visits to the machine-shops of the town." Robert was a poor pupil at school, however, and the teacher complained to his mother. Whereupon Mrs. Fulton replied proudly: "My boy's head, sir, is so full of original notions that there is no vacant chamber in which to store the contents of your musty books." "I was only ten years old at that time," said Fulton, "and my mother seemed to be the only human being who understood my natural bent for mechanics."

Others weary of the noise,
Mothers play with girls and boys;
Others scold because we fell,
Mothers kiss and make it well.
Others love us more or less,
Mothers love with steadiness.
Others pardon, hating yet,
Mothers pardon and forget.
Others keep the ancient score,
Mothers never shut the door.
Others grow incredulous,
Mothers still believe in us.
Others throw their faith away,
Mothers pray, and pray, and pray.
--Amos R. Wells

We are your children. Out of the infinite we have come to you, and through you. We are the old, yet ever new, miracle of incarnation.
Give us a chance to grow, within the warmth of your unfailing love, into souls sensitive to beauty, hearts open to love and hungry for the imperishable values of life. Do not shrink and wither us with fear, but quicken with faith the springs of courage within us.
Enter with us, through the gates of wonder, into the wider perspectives of the morrow. Accept us, as we grow, into a fellowship of mutual respect and shared responsibilities, that we, in our turn, may be worthy fathers and mothers of the coming generation.
--W. Waldemar W. Argow