My son starts school today．It’s going to be strange and new to him for a while．And I wish you would sort of1) treat him gently．
You see，up to now，he’s been king of the roost．He‘s been boss of the back yard．I have always been around to repair his wounds，and to soothe2) his feelings．
But now―things are going to be different．
This morning，he’s going to walk down the front steps，wave his hand and start on his great adventure that will probably include wars and tragedy and sorrow．To live his life in the world he has to live in will require faith and love and courage．
So，World，I wish you would sort of take him by his young hand and teach him the things he will have to know．Teach him―but gently，if you can．Teach him that for every scoundrel3)，there is a hero；that for every crooked4) politician there is a dedicated leader；that for every enemy there is a friend．Teach him the wonders of books．Give him quiet time to ponder the eternal mystery of birds in the sky，bees in the sun，and flowers on the green hill．Teach him it is far more honorable to fail than to cheat．Teach him to have faith in his own ideas，even if everyone else tells him they are wrong．Teach him to sell his brawn and brains to the highest bidder5)，but never to put a price on his heart and soul．Teach him to close his ears to a howling mob．．．and to stand and fight if he thinks he’s right．Teach him gently，World，but don’t coddle him，because only the test of fire makes fine steel．
This is a big order，World，but see what you can do．He‘s such a nice little fellow．
mother's hands
Night after night, she came to tuck me in, even long after my childhood years. Following her longstanding custom, she'd lean down and push my long hair out of the way, then kiss my forehead.
I don't remember when it first started annoying me — her hands pushing my hair that way. But it did annoy me, for they felt work-worn and rough against my young skin. Finally, one night, I shouted out at her, "Don't do that anymore —your hands are too rough!" She didn't say anything in reply. But never again did my mother close out my day with that familiar expression of her love.
Time after time, with the passing years, my thoughts returned to that night. By then I missed my mother's hands, missed her goodnight kiss on my forehead. Sometimes the incident seemed very close, sometimes far away. But always it lurked, in the back of my mind.
Well, the years have passed, and I'm not a little girl anymore. Mom is in her mid-seventies, and those hands I once thought to be so rough are still doing things for me and my family. She's been our doctor, reaching into a medicine cabinet for the remedy to calm a young girl's stomach or soothe the boy's scraped knee. She cooks the best fried chicken in the world... gets stains out of blue jeans like I never could...
Now, my own children are grown and gone. Mom no longer has Dad, and on special occasions, I find myself drawn next door to spend the night with her. So it was late on Thanksgiving Eve, as I slept in the bedroom of my youth, a familiar hand hesitantly run across my face to brush the hair from my forehead. Then a kiss, ever so gently, touched my brow.
In my memory, for the thousandth time, I recalled the night my young voice complained, "Don't do that anymore — your hands are too rough!" Catching Mom's hand in hand, I blurted out how sorry I was for that night. I thought she'd remember, as I did. But Mom didn't know what I was talking about. She had forgotten — and forgiven — long ago.
That night, I fell asleep with a new appreciation for my gentle mother and her caring hands. And the guilt that I had carried around for so long was nowhere to be found.
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