Children Are Not Defenseless
Unlike the other chapters, this chapter is not an explanation of how the script therein came to be written. I started out to write it just for fun with no attempt to be serious or prove anything and did not intend to include a script. But as it unravelled, the exercise of prayer in the smallest details of life kept cropping up in my mind, and the story of the Old Man clamored to be told — and so the chapter goes from the ridiculous to the sublime, with no apologies...
There are a number of fallacies in our culture that we have accepted as fact down through the generations in spite of all evidence to the contrary. Some of them are completely false, and with a reasonable amount of evidence and a little straight thinking can be exposed. The ones that go on fooling everybody are the ones with just enough truth in them to keep people from straight thinking. Our naivete is appalling. We are taught, for instance, that the animals and reptiles that are endowed with fangs, claws, horns, venom, and various other implements of offensive warfare, can fight. Those who cannot fight can run. And the rest can camouflage themselves to match their surroundings and hide. We are taught that adult humans can use their brawn. Failing this they can use their wits, their money, their ingenuity and their power, to survive. But children are defenseless — totally lacking in brawn, wits, ingenuity and power and all the rest of it.
Now this is a great fallacy. It is one of those partial truths, and we swallow the whole. The part about the children simply is not so.
At one time I did not know it was not so. I believed the whole of it when they laid my first son in my arms. "Poor little defenseless thing," I thought as I cuddled him close. "No wits, no money, no ingenuity, no power, no —"
That's what I thought. Little did I know that he was already making plans. The vague out-of-
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focus stare was only a cover-up. He was eyeing me, sizing me up with uncanny cunning. By the time the nurse took him back he had already concluded: "From a preliminary examination I should guess that handling her should not be difficult. She doesn't look too bright."
Of course he was right. I was very, very dedicated, very, very intense, very, very methodical — and very, very stupid.
He spent ten days in the hospital nursery thinking every minute, and by the time he left for home, he had the groundwork of his campaign laid. It was to be partly offensive strategy, partly defensive strategy, with Plan B ready to go into operation if Plan A failed. And the rest would be purely mopping up operations, with him doing the mopping up figuratively and me doing the mopping up literally.
Once home, the cold war started in earnest. He waged it with methodical thoroughness. He would sleep through his bath, sleep through his cuddle time, sleep through the times he was supposed to move his limbs and get his exercise — in fact, sleep through every hour I was awake working on him and for him. Then when I tumbled exhausted into bed —
"Gas!" he would bellow. And after an hour of floor walking there was, it turned out, no gas. "Pin!" he would shriek. And after a thorough examination there was no pin.
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As I was one of the thousands intimidated by the "clock method" (i.e., leave 'em alone and let 'em cry until it's time) that was sweeping the country at the time, he ran into a temporary snag, for I turned a deaf ear to his entreaties after the first few false alarms. But it was only an armed truce. He was not licked. "Gas!" he would bellow, and manage a good-sized belch when I picked him up. "Pin!" he would shriek, and there was a pin. So by carefully spacing the legitimate complaints with the trumped-up ones, he perfected the most deadly strategy of all — first wearing down, then confusing his opponent.
The confusion mounted with passing of time. I am a normally intelligent woman who usually learns by mistakes, but as quickly as I would profit by one and vow "never to do that again" — he would "never do that again" either. He would think up something else. And so I never had a chance to work out what I'd learned.
When his little brother arrived, I vowed that this time it would be different. But when he peeked for the first time inside the little blue bundle and said, "Hello Steve. I'm your brother Gary" — a knowing look was exchanged between them — and an almost imperceptible wink.
In the years that followed I wore out my old psychology text books and trailed the boys with dogged determination, slapping hands rather than removing forbidden objects, and as the wag said,
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"applying the board of education to the seat of learning" for more serious crimes, like dumping ink into the sugar bowl, ruining the dining room ceiling by flooding the upstairs bathroom, pulling up most of my carrots while they were still embryos, decorating the house with left-over paint, and "driving" my car by releasing the brake and coasting out into the street.
Though I must admit in all honesty that my methods worked, they never worked to my complete satisfaction. There was something wrong, but I couldn't ever put my finger on just what. It was true that they always obeyed after the punishment in that particular area, but they were eluding me somewhere. For instance, they never again ruined the dining room ceiling by flooding the bathroom. They ruined the bedroom ceiling by walking on the unfinished floor of the attic. And they never again pulled up any more carrots. They pulled up soybeans. They obeyed me to the letter. They absolutely never repeated the same crime twice.
In the face of all this I still believed that children were defenseless, lacking in wits, money, ingenuity, power, and all the rest of it. I had no inkling that this was a fallacy. To say it was would be tantamount to saying the earth was flat. You had overwhelming odds against you. The tenacity with which this conviction clung is evidence that I think slowly and am loath to let go of an old idea once it has taken root. It broke down by small degrees, a
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little chink here and a little chink there.
When a dinner guest once handed them each plastic boats exactly like the ones I'd given them the day before and I gave them a knowing look behind the guest's back and they started to announce that they had boats like that and my look turned from knowing to threatening and they said, "Why are you looking at us like that?" — there was a faint stirring within me. The guest drove them over to the shopping center and exchanged the boats for guns while I was putting the finishing touches on dinner and I thought about that stirring within me and decided it was the first wisp of a suspicion.
As events like that piled up and I found myself mysteriously outwitted time after time, the suspicion began to grow.
It was still growing when we landed at a summer conference one year where I was a speaker. We were in a screened cabin and because the weather was hot we had not bothered to lower the huge shutters that opened upward and were fastened with hooks. Neither had anyone else in the neighboring cabins. Drapes were our only privacy. Vocal privacy was impossible. I had reminded them that they were SK's* as we drove into the grounds. (I learned many years later that that is a grossly unfair thing to do; I did not know it then). When I perceived our lack of privacy I reminded them again. And no nonsense!
*Speaker's kids.
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By the second day we had gone through the routine of Don't-do-that and But-those-kids-are doing-it and You're SK's-and-you-can't behave-like-those-kids — and I decided it was time to find out who was boss.
"And this says you can't," I hissed softly, taking a wide belt off a hook, with confidence that the results would be quick and final. They were. Both of them fell to their knees before me, wringing their hands and shrieking dramatically —
"Oh, mother, please, please!"
"Don't beat us — please don't beat us!"
"Not the belt, mother, not that!"
"Oh please!"
I stood, belt raised, stunned to a standstill. Those snub noses, those apple cheeks, those streaming eyes, those crew-cut monsters — could they be mine? And where on earth did they get all that dramatic ability?
The next moment I was kneeling on the floor too, hissing at them, wiping their noses, imploring them to be quiet and we'd talk it out somehow. We'd settle for no treats for two days instead — or something. They went happily off to play, their tears instantly dry. But then I knew.
Poor little defenseless things? No wits? They lived by their wits. No ingenuity. When one thing didn't work they had a dozen other ways to go. No power? Ha!
The illusion was shattered, the fallacy exposed
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— and I knew at last the meaning of that look they had exchanged when Steve was still just a blue bundle.
I had been the poor defenseless thing with no wits, no ingenuity, no power. From that moment on I was awake. I did not love them any less — just more realistically. And at least I had the money.
When a few years later they got jobs in a barbershop shining shoes and I had to borrow four dollars and sixty-three cents from them to pay the milkman, even that last shred of the illusion went quietly down the drain. They had all the rest of those things — and money too. This was a grim business.
I was, as I said, awake to cold reality at last. As the years went on, I was a match for them. Or to put it more accurately, I was more or less a match for them.
I did have many moments of triumph. One of those moments, I remember, sent me into periodic fits of fiendish chuckling for weeks afterward.
They had offered to teach me a jujitsu trick. I was willing to learn, and allowed myself to be led into the living room where there was ample space in front of the fireplace for us to flop about. I wasn't quite sure who was to do the flopping about, but was willing to go along with it. Let the boys have their fun.
One of them was to attack me from behind as
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they explained the motions I was to go through to combat it. They went through it in slow motion, explaining each detail with superior patience and the tone of voice reserved for teaching children and adult with low IQ's. I listened humbly and finally we were ready to go. One of them watched while the other one attacked me.
"Now!" said my instructors. "Do it just like we told you." "Like this?" I said meekly — and did it. My attacker flew through the air at an incredible height and with incredible speed. He crashed, sprawling, several feet away. There was an amazed silence. Then we all dissolved into helpless laughter. They patted my back and spoke words of extravagant approbation all the way back to the kitchen.
But nothing more was ever said about teaching me more jujitsu. Whenever the subject came up they looked at me with grave respect.
But I admit to a few moments of panic too.
Like the evening a misunderstanding (understatement) arose and Steve threatened to leave home (dramatics) and I told him to go ahead (bluff and bravura) and the misunderstanding (understatement) was finally resolved satisfactorily in my mind (logic) but not in his (unreasonableness). I went to bed and forgot it.
The next morning I started breakfast and was in the act of spearing a sausage with a fork when I suddenly realized the house was ominously quiet. I went into the boys' bedroom. Gary was away at
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boarding school so of course his bed was neatly made. Steve's bed was rumpled but empty.
I stood, unbelieving, then with rubber knees, went to the phone. Only the sausage held me up. I leaned on it heavily as I contemplated what to do. My mother? She was three thousand miles away. The police? At that moment the phone rang. It was the mother of Steve's best friend. "Steve's here," she said. "He stayed with Bill last night. Said he had no place to go. That he — that you — "
The sausage wobbled on the end of the fork as I clung to it and burst into a tearful explanation. I leaned on it while I talked with Steve on the phone, and walked the floor with it until he came home. I never did eat it.
One night a few weeks later, I sneaked out to a phone booth and called her back. "Bill's here," I said. She began a tearful explanation. "Don't worry," I interrupted matter-of-factly. "I'll feed him, bed him down and send him home in the morning."
I had learned at long last what somebody should have told me in the first place. Animals and reptiles who are endowed with claws, horns, fangs, venom, and various other implements of offensive warfare, can fight. Those who cannot fight can run. And the rest can camouflage themselves to match their surroundings and hide. Adult humans can use their brawn. Failing this they can use their wits, their money, their ingenuity and their power to survive. Children are lacking in brawn. But they are
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born fully equipped with built-in wits, ingenuity and all the rest of it — plus a devastating weapon — a great dramatic ability. And they wield a power that defies analysis. They size us up while they're still in the basket, they analyze us, read our minds, anticipate our every move, and neatly and accurately categorize us and calculate their strategy accordingly.
The only way I have ever been able to cope with mine has been by prayer. In "Pilgrim's Progress," after Christian had been outfitted in the armory of the Palace Beautiful with helmet, shield, breastplate, sword and shoes — his hosts took him down a corridor and opened a door and showed him a great secret. It was a closet — and the great secret was prayer. Though his other weapons served him well, it was this great secret weapon that really gave him power. With it he defeated Appolyon in the Valley of Humiliation. And he defeated Giant Despair and his wife Diffidence and escaped from the dungeon. In all the major victories of his life, the tide in battle was turned in his favor when he stopped trying to go it on his own strength and used this most powerful of all weapons.
You may think it astonishing if not appalling that, possessing this great weapon, I did not have the sense to use it more often. But this chapter covers only a very small part of the whole. I have admitted only a few minor mistakes and no victories. Any Christian's total mistakes, were they to be ad-
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mitted, would require more than a chapter. They would fill books. Christians who do not admit mistakes, untoward attitudes and secret rebellions are very difficult to learn anything from. Partly because they are too good to be true and partly because they are crashing bores.
The truth is, I did use the weapon more often than I did not. Many of our problems were serious ones. It was the days when I awoke at five-thirty and sneaked downstairs to a favorite spot in, of all places, the kitchen — to pray — that I had the upper hand. And later, when the boys were older and I was traveling, it was the nights when, computing the time difference, I would set my alarm for the hour when their day was beginning and pray for them in my hotel room — that things went well. All of which goes to prove that, short of bulldozing a child into trembling submission (and any adult who does that is less than human), you don't stand a chance against his built-in equipment without your complete armor on, all your senses (including a great deal of common sense and a sense of humor, though a sense of the ridiculous is even better) — and the secret weapon.
The children I'm talking about are not the Elsie Dinsmores, but the ones who baffle us, stump us, argue with us using their own peculiar brand of frightening logic, make us weep with frustration, make us laugh, keep us on our toes, and are apparently impervious to our bungling. They manage
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to survive, in fact, in spite of our bungling.
I would like to include to a script here that may seem out of place because it has nothing to do with children at all. It does, however, have to do with the secret weapon, reduced to its very simplest form and available to anybody, even the most unschooled in its use.
The portions at the beginning and end are drawn from my own experience in prayer with one of my boys. I have made "Gramma" the narrator.
The meat of the story — the tale of the old man — is adapted from a true account of an unnamed old gentleman of God. It happened somewhere in Scotland. And it is true.
* * * * *
NOTHING'S TOO SMALL . . .
The woman sat on the foot of the bed, her head bowed, but she was watching the boy praying. He was hunched over the bed, his elbows dug in, his fists pushed in his cheeks, and he was frowning as though in fierce concentration. But his words belied it. They came out in a rush. "And dear Heavenly Father — make me a good boy and bless mother and
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daddy and sister and my dog and stop all the wars and bless all our plans and help all the people in the world, somehow, amen. What's the story tonite, Gram?"
"Hold on there," she said. But she was smiling. They were friends. "You romped through that prayer like it was a multiplication table."
"Well, I said everything I could think of, and now I'm through."
"You didn't ask Him to help you fix up the trouble between you and Skipper."
"No — well that's different."
"And that little business you've got to straighten out with your Dad. Those are real problems, you know."
"But God isn't interested — "
"In the wart on your nose. Yup, I know. There are two schools of thought on that."
"But He's busy with wars and — "
"Um hm. Wars and nations and kings and a world full of problems. I know that too."
"What do you mean — two schools of thought?"
"That means two opinions. Some think God has time only for big things. That's one school of thought."
"And?"
"And some think He means just what He says — that He cares about every problem, big or little, and wants to be included in every part
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of your life.""It's wrong to think He's interested only in big things?"
"Well it's underestimating God. I think when we see God some day, we'll be surprised at all the ways we've underestimated Him." She cocked her head and looked at him a minute. "I've changed my mind about what I'm going to tell you tonight."
"You're not going to tell me a story?"
"Oh yes. Of course. But not the one I'd planned to. I'm going to tell you a story about prayer."
"Oh. Is it a long one?"
"Well, I know two of them. They're about two people who took God at His word. One was an old man — one was a little boy. Which one do you want to hear?"
"Mmmmmmm. If I choose one, will you tell me the other one too, sometime?" he bargained.
"Uh huh."
"Mmmmm. Let's see. The old man!"
"All right." She cleared her throat. (She always did; it was part of the ritual) and began:
"Once upon a time there was an old man. He was a very poor old man."
"Ohhhhhh." (That was part of the ritual too.)
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"He didn't have much money. But he'd taken the Lord Jesus as his Saviour, and he had the deepest, simplest love for the Lord in his heart. Well. One day," — ah, now, the story was beginning — "something very special happened in this old man's life. In those days, life wasn't as fast and exciting as it is now — they didn't have cars and radios and television and planes and things like that. And Christians didn't have the opportunities to hear the Word of God the way they do now. So this was something special. A great evangelist — famous all over the country — was preaching in another town a few miles away. Series of meetings. Everybody was talking about it, and everybody wanted to go."
"And this old man wanted to go!"
"He certainly did. He didn't have a horse and buggy to go in, either, but that didn't phase him a bit. He did up a simple lunch and started early in the morning, hiking along the road."
"It was a long way?"
"Oh my yes! Took 'most all day! But he didn't mind. He was used to things like that."
"He went all by himself?"
"He started out by himself. He walked a long way, when he was overtaken by a young fellow — and what did they find but that they were both going to the same place."
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"To the meetings!"
"Yes — to the meetings. The young fellow turned out to be a seminary student — and so they had a lot to talk about and enjoyed each other's company. And when it came time to eat, they stopped by the roadside and took out their lunches. And they prayed."
"They said grace."
"Uh huh. And the student — my! He thanked God for the food in a beautiful studied prayer full of well-turned-out pious phrases he'd learned just so. My, it was a prayer to make a simple fellow tongue-tied, you know."
"Was the old man tongue-tied?"
"Oh no!" she laughed. "That old man had lived so close to God, it would take more than a literary prize prayer to freeze him up. When they finished lunch and were ready to start on, the young fellow asked the old man to ask God's blessing on the rest of their trip — 'cause they didn't have too far to go now."
"And the old man prayed," prompted the boy.
"Yes — he prayed for both of them, and for the meetings to come — and then before he finished, his prayer took a turn that made the young student sneak a look at him to see if he were fooling.
" 'And father,' the old man said, 'there's
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something special I'd like to ask you. Matter of fact, there are three things. You know I'm hard of hearing — and You know how bad I want to hear that sermon tonight. Now I'm asking You for a front seat. I know it'll be crowded — but nothing's too hard for You. And I know You want me to hear. And then — I need some shoes, and I know You know that too. And oh —! Lord, I need a place to stay too. 'Most forgot. And now, Lord, we'll leave the meeting and the sermon and all our needs in Your hands. In Jesus' Name, amen.' And he turned to the student. 'Well. I guess we'd better move on.'
"And the student was incredulous! 'I say,' he sputtered, 'do you really think that God — that God —'
" 'What's the matter?' said the old man, and his eyes were twinkling.
" 'Nothing. Only —' The student took a deep breath and began again. 'Only, in all my life I never heard anyone pray for such — for such — in such a manner. Do you really think God will answer a prayer like that?'
"Now it was the old man's turn to be surprised. 'Oh yes,' he said, 'He certainly will. You see, He looks past my poor English and my lack of theological terminology.' He chuckled. 'You see I know some big words too.' He cleared his throat. 'And he
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cares. Don't ever underestimate God. I know.'
" 'Well. All right.' The student picked up his things. 'We'd better move along. But I'll be very much interested to find out if — and how — your prayer is answered.' "
The boy laughed. "That was some prayer. Was it answered?"
"Well, we'll see," said the woman. She had an eager audience now and she was enjoying it. "They went on into the town, and it was even worse than they'd expected. Horses and buggies lined up for blocks away from the church."
"Oh oh."
"Mmmm. And the church was just crowded to the doors. Every seat was taken." They squeezed in anyhow and got into the standing line in the back, and stood there, the old man cupping his hand up to his ear so he could hear — though the preaching hadn't started yet. And they hadn't been there five minutes when an usher came and bent close to the old man's ear.
" 'Pardon me,' he said.
'Hm?' said the old man.
'Will you come with me, please? There's a seat for you in one of the front pews.'
'For me? Oh. Well, thank you, sir.' And he said under his breath, 'And thank
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You, Father.' Then he turned to the student and said matter-of-factly, 'Well, g'bye, Son. See you after the meeting.'
"And he marched down the aisle into the very front pew, and sat down alongside a most beautiful and well-dressed young lady.
" 'Ehhh.' He settled himself with a comfortable sigh. Then he turned his head and whispered. 'Do I have you to thank for this nice seat?'
'Good evening,' she whispered back. 'This is my father's seat. My father said if he wasn't here by seven-thirty, to give his seat to some worthy person. I was looking toward the back for him — and I noticed you standing there with your hand cupped to your ear. Sooo —'
'Well. Well, thank you,' he said, and under his breath. "Thank You, Father.'
"Well — when it came time to pray — the old man was the kneeling-down kind of pray-er, and the young lady was the standing-up kind. And with her head bowed, she couldn't help seeing the holes in the bottom of the old man's shoes."
"She shoulda had her eyes closed, Gram," the boy said.
"This is not time to split hairs," the woman said back quickly. "Anyway, while they were taking up the collection, the
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young lady leaned over toward the old man and said: 'I hope you won't be offended, but I couldn't help noticing your shoes. You — well, my father owns a shoe store. And — I can get in easily after the meeting. I have a key. Our houseman who drives me home will help us — and we can fit you with a new pair. Will you accept it as from the Lord?'
"Well, he thought about that for a moment. Then he said, 'That's awful nice of you, Ma'am. Yup. Thank you, ma'am. You're awful kind.' And under his breath, 'And thank You, Father.' "
The boy was sitting on the bed now, hugging his knees. "Boy oh boy!" he said, "isn't that something? Two of his things were answered. Two down. And one to go!"
"Well it is kinda exciting, isn't it?" She laughed and shifted her position, savoring what was to come.
"First, they had a wonderful meeting and that old man just listened to God's Word like a — well like in the poem: 'Little children looking up — full of wonder, like a cup.' That's just the way he listened. And when the meeting was over, he passed the young student outside on the church steps, and he called out: 'Good nite, Son. See you tomorrow night's meetin'. I'm on my way to
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the store to get me a new pair of shoes!' "
They laughed hard then, the woman and the boy. She slapped her thigh, and he hugged his knees and rocked back and forth. They laughed at the sheer audacity of it, this adventure in trusting.
"Well," she said, "They got to the shoe store and tried on shoes till they got the right pair." She acted it out, thrusting out her foot and examining it.
" 'How do they feel?' asked the young lady.
'Fine,' said the old man. 'Just fine.'
'Walk around a bit,' she said. 'Sure they're all right?'
'Oh, just fine. Just fine and dandy.'
'Well you'd better have two pairs. Rob' — she said to the houseman. 'Rob — will you get another pair the same size please? And wrap them up. Thank you.' She turned to the old man to say goodbye. 'It was nice of you to share my pew in the absence of my father. I've enjoyed your company. And now — can't we drop you off to wherever you're going?'
'Why you certainly — why — ehhh.' He started several times and then he foundered and stopped.
'What is it?' asked the young lady.
'Why, you see, ma'am, my Father has a room for me, only I don't know — He just
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hasn't got around to telling me where it is yet.''Your fath — ohhhh. Your Father in heaven. You mean God.'
'Yep. God.'
"She looked at him in wonder for a minute. Then: 'Look. Dr. Allen — he was supposed to be our guest all this week to assist at the meetings. He sent word that he couldn't come. So there's an empty guest room at our house. I' — She laughed and held out her hands to him as if they were in sudden conspiracy. 'This is getting monotonous. I hope you won't be offended. Why don't you — won't you come and stay with us? We'd — why, we'd be honored to have you!'
'Ma'am' — he fished for his handkerchief and cleared his throat. 'This is gettin' more wonderful by the minute. You're just — I'd love to accept your kind invitation, Ma'am. And thank you.' And softly, 'And thank You Father.' "
They laughed again, the woman and the boy, but softly this time.
"Well," the woman said, "next night, after the meeting, the old man ran into the young student outside the church.
" 'Hello there, Son,' he said.
'Hello, Sir. Wonderful meetings.'
'Yup. Wonderful.'
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'I see you got your new shoes. And your front seat.' They looked at each other for a moment. And then the old man said, 'Ain't you gonna ask if I got my room?'
'No.' The student shook his head. 'Somehow I know you got that room.'
'Yep, son. I did.' They were silent again. Finally, 'Wonderful meetin's, eh?' the old man said again.
'Yes — wonderful.'
'Learned a lot?'
'I learned a great deal more than I bargained for. I — came here to hear an eloquent preacher. So I could study his style and learn great things. But I learned — greater things, Sir.'
'Oh?'
'Yes. I watched your face in the audience and learned how to listen. You weren't listening to a great preacher. You were listening to God.'
'That's right, Son.'
'And I heard you pray and I learned about prayer. You weren't just praying a nice prayer. You were talking to God. You brought heaven down. It — meant something. I just want you to know — how rich it's made me — knowing you.' He thrust out his hand and said simply. 'Goodnight, Sir.'
'Good night. And Son' —
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'Yes?'
'Just don't ever — underestimate God, Son. Nothing's too hard for Him. Nothin's too small.' Then he turned and shuffled off into the dark."
Neither the woman nor the boy said anything for a moment. Then the boy sighed and stretched his legs out in front of him. "Nothing's too hard for Him. Nothing's too small," he said. "I liked that story. He was a great old man."
"Are you ready to straighten out those problems now?" she said softly, "to really talk with God?"
"Will He do anything I ask Him? It says if I pray in Jesus' name — "
"Do you know what it means to pray in His name?"
"I don't know. I don't think I know."
"It means to pray in His nature. To be so identified with Him that you wouldn't pray for anything He didn't already want you to have. Let's do it right now, shall we?"
He scrambled to his knees again. "Dear Heavenly Father," he began. "I wasn't really praying before. Just sorta saying words. You know —" He rubbed his nose. "And I want to fix up what I did wrong today. And I want to ask about — well about
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a lot of things. First there's..."And he dug his fists back into his cheeks and got down to business.
* * * * * * *
To say that God is not interested in small "unimportant" details is to vastly underestimate God. And there is no area of your life more replete with infinitesimally small details than the area of your dealings with your children.
You can talk to God about your children. You can tell Him everything, ask Him anything. You can even laugh with Him about the funnier things. I believe He understands laughter. For He is the One Who made your children so funny in the first place.
