A Merry Heart
All who joy would win must share it —
Happiness was born a twin...
...Lord Byron, Don Juan
A merry heart maketh a cheerful countenance
...Proverbs 15:13
Teach me half the gladness
That thy brain must know...
...Shelly, To a Skylark
I think the story in this chapter was born one Sunday afternoon when the boys and I were having dinner at a mountain lodge. I had left a message at the desk, as I expected a friend to phone me and had told him where I would be. We were just beginning our soup when I was called to the phone. Both boys scraped their chairs back and leapt to their feet when I arose, a display of gallantry that gave me a bit of a jolt and prompted me to go whole-hog and say, "Will you excuse me, please?"
When I went back to the table, they were engrossed in conversation, but when they saw me coming they leapt up again, and with more scraping of chairs got me and themselves seated.
This all gave me a strange feeling of unreality. I looked at them with new eyes. Could this mean that all my years of training were, at long last, bearing fruit? Was I dreaming? Could it be — it was! They were dipping their spoons away from them! Down through the years I had said:
"Like little ships put out to sea
I dip my spoon away from me."
But without success. After the twentieth time they would join in and repeat it mechanically along with me. They knew the poem, but the connection between the poem and its application escaped them somehow. And now here they were, dipping away as if they'd been doing it all their lives.
As if this were not enough of a shock, the con-
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versation took several interesting twists and I realized they were cognizant of what was going on in the world, had some serious views of life — and in passing, I noticed that they were even pronouncing their participles. I looked at them with their clean necks, their hair plastered down with alarming neatness, their fine manners, and felt like somebody else. And, like Jane in the following story, the years turned back. Not categorically, of course. The events that flashed through my mind were haphazard and unrelated.
My first ideals and ideas about parenthood, for instance. I tackled motherhood with a fanatic thoroughness that appalled my friends, alarmed my poor mother, and all but finished us off. My sterile efficiency was enough to make any discriminating baby roll up his personal accounterments in a diaper and leave home. Surely the uncertain fortunes of the world could not be worse than the certain misfortune of being in the hands of this grim woman who lived with one eye on her offspring and the other on the clock, and ate lunch with a child-psychology textbook propped against the coffee decanter — probably searching for a paragraph that would tell her it was proper to boil infants for twenty minutes if they got exposed to germs.
As I see it now, the basic problem was my absolute lack of flexibility. At this age of development, if we were on page thirty-six, we had better be on page thirty-six. If they were on page thirty-
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five or thirty-seven, it was a horrible reflection on my ability as a mother and could not be tolerated. And so we lived by pages and chapters. We lived by the thermometer too, until the day I phoned our doctor for the impossible-drillionth time and reported a temperature of 101 and asked him what I should do and he said wearily, "Break the thermometer."
Fun moments? Of course. Saw-horses hitched to the back porch, to be leapt on at a moment's notice to gallop over the plains and carry a secret message to the king. Or to gallop to a secret hide-out (converted piano box at the foot of the yard) to eat lunch. And sometimes lunch eaten while the three of us solemnly wore paper rabbit ears and called each other Flopsie, Mopsie and Mother Cottontail — so the wretched dreadful carrots would go down. And stories. Millions of them. All the Bible stories. And a continued story concerning the adventures of a certain Gary Wayne Sinkstopper and Stephen Paul Wastebasket — that literally ran for years.
But it is not the successful times I want to talk about, for we do not tend to learn from success — and we do not identify ourselves with, or expect any understanding or help from a paragon of success. Success inspires, to be sure. But it is from our failures — and other people's failures — that we really learn.
But back to the mountain lodge — and the story.
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Other memories in the flash back that day crept into the story. Gary's sliding down the banister and landing with a resounding thud on the back of an unsuspecting guest who was standing in the hallway. The dismal failure of attempted piano lessons. Report cards.
And then a various assortment of oddities that did not get into the story but contributed to its flavor. Steve's being introduced to a distinguished guest and unexpectedly standing on his head instead of shaking hands.
Oh. And the day we were swimming at a conference in the east. We went through the you-can't-do-that-but-the-other-kids-are-doing-it-but-you're-a-speaker's-kid-you-can't-behave-like-those-other-kids routine. So Gary did it. He went down the waterslide head first and plunged head down through the water, sinking himself like a fence-post into the lake bottom. They laid him on the beach, and a preliminary examination by the camp doctor disclosed a possible fractured vertebra. Gary cut his teeth on medical terminology and was not fooled for an instant. "I've got a broken neck," he shrieked. Now a broken neck for some reason sounds more ominous than a fractured vertebra. It suggests the head hanging off to one side.
So it was a solemn and sober little party that entered the ambulance for the fifty mile ride to the nearest hospital. The ride, it turned out, was fun in a weird sort of way. To see the cars ducking
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and scurrying off to both sides of the road in response to the ambulance siren gives an odd sense of power and exhilaration. I had trouble with my driving for weeks afterward. I still thought I had the undisputed right of way.
As Gary could not raise his head, I gave him my vanity case mirror so he could see the fun. He was beginning to enjoy the whole thing.
The attention lavished on him at the hospital was something to behold. Gary was almost disappointed to find his neck wasn't broken after all. There was nothing wrong that five days of traction didn't fix up.
Back at the conference, we went through the youcan'tdothatbuttheotherkidsaredoingitbutyou'reaspeaker'skidyoucan'tbehavelikethoseotherkids routine again. But he didn't do it. He was just sounding me out — a thing I understand is a compulsion in small boys.
And then there was Steve's broken leg. Done in a most undramatic way. A falling truck tailgate. Humiliating. If a boy is going to crack a bone, he wants a tale of derring-do connected with it — something you can get your teeth into. But this was a simple fracture. And suffered in an ignoble way. Like the time he knocked all his front teeth out — not by smashing an athletic record or getting attacked by unknown assailants — but simply by falling up the marble steps with a bag of groceries outside our apartment.
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But back to the leg. A temporary cast was put on it, and a week later we went to a specialist where I encountered some of the unfathomable mysteries of orthopedics. The young lady who took the case history was efficient enough, but I could not follow her thinking.
"How old are you?" she asked, looking at me.
"He's the one who broke his leg," I faltered.
"Sixteen," Steve said promptly.
"No, you," she said. So I told her, though I could not imagine why.
"Are you left or right handed?" she fired at Steve.
"But it's his leg that's broken," I ventured.
"Left," said Steve.
It was some time before we got around to the leg, which was what I'd thought we'd gone in for. By the time the great white father appeared, the young lady had me thoroughly cowed and confused, which is what I understand they do to people who enter their portals too self-assured. It's a sort of brainwashing.
We followed the great white father down a very slippery corridor. It had been waxed to a fare-you-well. I nearly lost my footing twice. "With this floor you should drum up extra business. Ought to average two extra fractures a week," I quipped with the uncertain little laugh of a person who has just been thoroughly cowed and confused. He did not answer. He had no sense of humor.
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Once in the examination room he looked at the case history with my age on it and said dryly to Steve, "Well, young man, for your age you're in remarkably good condition."
I brightened at once. He did have a sense of humor. And that woman in the front office wasn't so bright after all. Ha.
A week later I went off on tour leaving the boys safely boarded in the mountains. Steve's cast was no drawback at all. He had circumvented all obstacles and could do just about anything. For the first week I was only a few hundred miles up the coast and we exchanged letters. But before I took off for New York I thought a phone call was in order. I talked to them both at once.
"How are you," I said.
"I'm okay," said Steve.
"He's okay," said Gary.
"How's everything at camp?" I was still trying.
"It's okay," said Steve.
"It's okay," said Gary.
"Well, I'm off to New York," I offered. "D'you think it's safe for me to go?"
"That's okay," said Steve.
"That's okay," said Gary.
"Are you sure you're all right?" I persisted.
"I'm okay," said Steve.
"He's okay," said Gary.
"Well all right then. Goodbye," I said. "You're sure you're okay?"
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"I'm okay," said Steve.
"He's okay," said Gary.
"Except for the rattlesnake bite," said Steve.
"Rattlesnake?" I gasped. "Did you say rattlesnake?"
"Yes. But I had an anti-snake shot at the clinic," said Steve.
"Yeah. He swelled up and turned blue but now he's okay," said Gary.
"Yeah. Now I'm okay," said Steve.
"Are you sure?" I was breathing hard.
"Yeah. He's okay," said Gary.
"I'm okay," said Steve. "Except I shot myself."
"Yeah," said Gary. "Tell her how you shot yourself."
"You WHAT?"
"Yeah," said Steve. "It was on account of the rattlesnake. I pulled the gun out to shoot him. But I didn't get it out of the holster fast enough. It's only a flesh wound. I had a tetanus shot at the hospital. It's okay.
"Yeah. He swelled up and turned blue but now he's okay," said Gary.
The silence that followed was punctuated by my heavy breathing.
"Why didn't you tell me?" I said in low measured tones — an effort to control myself. "We've been talking for five minutes. Why didn't you tell me? I asked you a dozen times how you were."
"It all happened to the other leg," said Steve.
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"You didn't ask me about the leg it happened to."
I admonished them to hang on and be brave and I would try to get a seat on the next plane back. But they were surprised.
"I'm okay," said Steve.
"He's okay," said Gary.
And I might add in passing that they haven't changed. Only a few weeks ago, there was a phone call from Steve from his army training base. Gary had dropped in for a visit and picked up an extension, so we had a three-way conversation again:
"Look, Mom. You'll be getting a report from the army hospital. But don't worry. I'm okay," said Steve.
"What is it?" I wailed.
"Stuck my head out of tank five feet away from another tank that was firing," he said.
"Take it easy, Mother," said Gary.
"Were you hit?" I said, which for obvious reasons was a stupid thing to say.
"Mother," he said wearily. "If I'd been hit I wouldn't be here. Knocked my helmet off and knocked me back into the tank. Banged my head against the side. Got a concussion, that's all."
"And you're out of the hospital now? I asked. Are you sure you're all right?"
"I'm okay," said Steve.
"He's okay," said Gary.
But back again to the mountain lodge. We finished dinner, they calculated the tip, paid the bill,
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helped me into my wrap, helped me into the car — all with impeccable finesse — and we went on our way. I looked at Steve. "You're okay," I thought. And at Gary. "You're okay," I thought. And at our life together. "It's okay," I thought. And I went home and wrote
* * * * * * *
CHARLEY
Jane and Aunt Agatha walked down the center aisle of the large church, got their programs and were ushered down front into one of the finest pews. The church was already well filled — Jane resisted the temptation to look back up and see if the balcony was filled too; she settled down next to Aunt Agatha to wait for Charley. As she waited, she thought on Charley — which was a pretty big order, for Charley was something to think on. And as she thought, the years turned back.
Of course it had been apparent from the beginning that Charley was a very unusual child. At least it had been apparent to Jane. Things had started out well enough, except for the fact that he'd been named Charles after
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his father — which was the last thing she should have done, for it led inevitably to the "big Charley, little Charley" business, to avoid "Junior." But other than that, he was off to a good start, an absolute cherub. When a nurse had first brought him into her hospital room, Jane had looked him over carefully and decided he was quite above average. And her mind buzzed with plans for the new chapter in her life.
Jane was a very methodical person, who believed that if you added two and two you had to get four. It was simply a matter of cause and effect, knowledge and application — so she fortified herself with books and more books on the care and feeding of children — and also a shelf of psychology books. She was prepared for anything.
Any resemblance between Charley and the baby in the book, however, was purely coincidental. For he had a most decided mind of his own. Jane insisted that it was a matter of deciding which category he fell into, and the rest would be easy. There was only one catch to that. Charley didn't seem to fall into any category at all. By the time she'd decided he was something no psychologist had ever written anything about, the pre-school years were over. Jane's hopes went up again when she deposited him in school; perhaps the teach-
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ers would discover just how he was above average — but she waited in vain for the good news. In school — and in Sunday school — Charley was utterly, utterly average.
Sunday school. It was Charley who went to Sunday school first, and Jane could never think of it without a tightening of her throat in gratitude, all over again. For it was Charley who'd come home from Sunday school with a little wordless book.
"Now. It's a story without words, see."
"Uh huh."
"So — ah — here's — First. The golden page. Do you know what that stands for? That's heaven. 'In My Father's house are many mansions. If it were not so I would have told you. I go to prepare a place for you — ' "
"Where'd you learn that?"
"That's in the Bible."
"Hmmm. Well. Go on."
"Well. That — that is heaven. Would you like to go there when you die?"
"Well. I expect I will."
"No, Mother. That's just it. You won't."
"Why?" She was half amused, half taken aback.
"Now that's just what I wanted you to ask, on account of here — there, now, that's the next page. It's all black."
"So it is."
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"That's you."
"Heey now, wait a minute —" This was getting a bit thick.
"I'm — I'm not telling you you're black. God tells you you are. You're not going to argue with Him, are you?"
"No — I guess I won't." She settled back, wary now.
"Well. 'For all have sinned and come short of the glory of God.' Now that says that — in the Bible. For all have sinned and come short of the glory of God. That means you too, Mom."
"That means me too. Go on."
"Now there's a red page. The blood of Jesus Christ, His Son, cleanses us from all sin."
"The blood of Jesus Christ." She was listening now.
"And here's a white page. 'Wash me and I shall be whiter than snow.' That — that's the only way, Mother, you can get to heaven. D'you see?"
Yes — wonderfully, miraculously, she had seen. It had always amazed her that she had seen. And she had found this Jesus — and had claimed His righteousness for her salvation. In the simplest possible way. She had walked into God's arms like a child. She'd gone to church first. Then to Sunday school. It was a new chapter. No, it was a new life.
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And then big Charley had seen it. They'd had two wonderful years.
And then big Charley had died.
That was when Aunt Agatha had moved in, had come to tide Jane over for a month, and had been there ever since. Jane pressed against her gratefully in church, as she thought of it. Agatha had stayed ever since, and ever since, little Charley had been leading them a merry chase.
"But you stood up there on the platform and didn't open your mouth. What was the matter?"
"I don't know."
"Your whole class recited the Scripture. You know that Scripture."
"Sure. 'Put on the whole armor of God, that ye may be able to stand against the wiles of the devil. For we wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world, against — ' "
"Why didn't you say it?"
"Hm?"
"Why didn't you say it — when you were up there with the class?"
"I dunno."
"And you knew the song?"
"Sure." He began to sing it, all stops pulled out. "A call for loyal soldiers comes to one
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and all — soldiers for the conflict — soldiers for the —"
"Why didn't you sing it when the rest of them did?"
"I dunno."
"Oh brother."
Of course with Charley, it could never be said that two and two actually made four. But then it could never be said that there were many dull moments.
"Don't know why I have to practice this foolish thing. Fellows don't play pianos. Fellows don't —"
"Charley —"
"Fellows just don't. The name of this foolish thing is 'A Happy Farmer Coming Home from Work.' "
"Charley —"
"So if he doesn't have to take piano lessons he oughta be happy."
"Charley, stop muttering."
"Hm?"
"You have that wrong, darling."
"I can't hear you. I'm practicing."
"You sound as if you're playing with your elbows — in the cracks. With all those keys on the board, why do you play in the cracks?"
"I don't see why I have to practice this foolish thing. Fellows don't —"
"You're going to sit there and practice until
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you get that thing straight. You're going to —"
"The phone's ringing. The phone's ringing."
"You're going to —"
"Phone's ringing. Phone's —"
"I hear it. Keep on practicing. I'll be back."
Hap-py Far-mer —"
"Whslth gldhs dnehd helse kejs!"
"What?"
"Whslth gldhs dnehd helse —"
"WHAT?"
"Will you stop that foolish thing for a minute so I can hear who's on the phone?"
"Ohhh. First I have to practice this nice piece and then I have to stop this foolish thing. First it's a nice piece and then it's a —"
"Charley. It wasn't the telephone. It was the doorbell."
"My piano teacher?"
"No. It's the new pastor. Will you run upstairs and wash your face?"
"I already washed it on the side my teacher sits. She sits —"
"You-get-up-stairs-and-wash-it-on-both-sides-and-your-hands-too-and-your-hands-have-BACKS!"
"Okay, oKAY!"
Smile now, she thought. Let pastor in. Keep smiling. Kids will be kids. And Charley is the only kid you have.
"Well, Dr. BAILEY! Of ALL people! How
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good of you to call. Come in!"
"Hello, Mrs. Martin. I thought I'd drop by and — ooooof!"
Oh no!
Must keep head. Don't blow top. Send Charley upstairs with firm and objective dignity. Help Dr. Bailey up. Help him up. There, that's it. You're doing fine. Don't blow top till he leaves. That's it, hold it till he leaves. Will he ever leave? Will he ever — no, please God, let him stay. If he leaves now, you will kill Charley. Let him stay till you cool off. You must not even think of killing Charley. You must not think of Charley. If you stop thinking of the whole business, maybe it will go away. Must keep head. Must — Oh. He's going. At long last. He's gone. Now.
"Charley? You may come downstairs now. He's gone." Ah. You are deadly calm. He stayed long enough.
"Mother. I'm awfully sorry."
"Why did you have to slide down the banister?"
"I guess you didn't hear me coming."
"Why did you have to slide down the banister?
"You always tell me I make too much noise when I walk down. I thought I'd come down quietly."
"But why did you have to —"
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"HOW'D I KNOW HE WAS STANDING RIGHT THERE AT THE FOOT OF THE STAIRS? I THOUGHT YOU'D INVITE HIM IN THE LIVING ROOM!"
For the most part, the rest of Charley's boyhood was one big blur to Jane. Bits and fragments came back to her, plucked from nowhere.
"How do I look, Mom?"
"Mmmm. Wonderful."
"Pretty snappy, hm?"
"Mmm. Pretty snappy."
"D'you think she'll like me?"
"I'm sure she will. Do you have your money?"
"Uh huh."
"Corsage?"
"Yup."
"And don't forget — hey — wait a minute! Your neck is dirty!"
Some of the fragments were of no significance —
"So, Mom. There it is."
"Charley! I never thought I'd live to see this day."
"Yeah. I'm pretty smart after all."
"Oh I never doubted that for a minute. But an A in English! Were there many others who got A's?"
"Nope. Just me and two other guys."
"Oh good grief."
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And some of them were milestones.
"I learned some stuff in manual training today. I'm going to be real helpful around the house, Mom. I learned how to change a — fix a — put on a new — eh — thing. Washer. Fits the water tap."
"Hm? Well."
"Well. I'm going to fix these — we've got — we've got two drips in the house."
"Three. Aunt Agatha's with us."
"No, you know what I mean. I mean faucets. I've learned to fix 'em. And that's just what I'm going to do."
"Oh oh."
"Hm?"
"Nothing darling. I think that's wonderful. Where're you going?"
"Down the cellar. I have to turn the main water off."
"You do?" Keep calm. Show confidence.
"Sure. You have to do that. Gimme a light, will you?"
"Please may I have a light."
"That's what I said. Gimme a light, will you?"
Don't follow him down there. Turn on the light and leave him alone. That's the only way he'll learn —
"Do you know how to do it?" Shouldn't have said that.
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"Sure. I know how to do it. I know where the place is. I'll just have it off for a few minutes. I've got this down pat. I know how to do it."
He knows how to do it. Leave him alone. That's only the way he'll —
"You just — twist — this — uh — kinda rusty — just — uh Mom! I busted something! There's water —"
Oh no!
"Water! Oh boy! Can't stop it! Mom, call a plumber!"
Quick. Call a plumber. Easy now. Yellow pages. Can't he do anything right? Plumber, plumber, plumber, plumber. Oh brother. Don't get angry. You can't think when you're angry. You won't find a plumber if you get angry. Find a plumber and then get angry. Plumber, plumber. Send Charley off to camp. Or away to school. Plumber. Here we are. No, leave Charley home and you go off somewhere. Anywhere. Why doesn't he answer? That cellar will be half full before he —
"Yes? Plumber?"
Now. Easy does it. The leak's fixed. The cellar's bailed out. It could have been worse. Charley could have — No. Don't think of Charley. Think of something else. Go talk to Agatha. Find Agatha. Agatha —
"That settles it, Agatha. He isn't my child —
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he can't be. They switched babies on me in the nursery, that's what they did, Agatha."
"Well, don't act as if the world had come to an end, Jane."
"But Agatha — he turned — he broke something down the cellar — they've got the water off on the whole street now —"
"Well what of it? It isn't a matter of life or death."
"Matter of life or death? It practically is! It's Monday morning. Everybody's washing. I'll — I'll have to go down the street with a bag over my head for a month. I won't be able to face anybody. And all because he wanted to change a — fix a — put on a washer. What is the matter with that boy? Agatha — where have I failed? Where have I failed? What can I do with him?"
"If you'd just talk to him more — try to reach his mind —"
"He doesn't have a mind!"
"Oh, Jane!"
"He doesn't have a mind, Agatha. If I could look inside his head, it would be filled with little pebbles. I know it would."
"Jane — calm yourself!"
"Calm myself! Agatha. Other people's children don't act like that. They — they — grow up normally. They — they — they go through from Sunday to Monday — normally. They're
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normal. He starts the week on Wednesday and lives it toward both ends. There simply never was another boy — as — as crazy as he is."
"Nonsense. There are at least ten million mothers in this country alone who would throw up their hands in protest if they could hear you say that."
"Well I'll bet you one thing. I'll bet — Oh. Hello, Charley. I didn't hear you come in."
"Hello, Mom. Hi, Aunt Agatha."
"Hello there, Son."
"I'm awfully sorry, Mom. They'll have it fixed in a little while. The place where I went to turn it off was old. It was — kinda rusty. It just snapped. I'm sorry. You know I'm sorry, Aunt Agatha."
"Of course you are. You certainly didn't do it on purpose. It isn't anything that can't be fixed anyhow. So there's no great harm done. The mail is here. You've got some pamphlets from some colleges. Christian colleges, Charles. Have you been writing to them?"
"Yeah. I — sorta — gotta start thinking about the rest of my education. You know. After I get out of high school. What's the matter, Mom?"
"You mean you've been thinking?"
"Heh. Sure. Thinking about what I want to be. What's the matter?"
"Oh nothing. It — just never occurred to
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me that you — that you wanted to be anything."
"Aw, sure. Heh. Mom, I — I want to be a minister. Didn't you know? Mom. What's the matter?"
She saw him then, suddenly, at just that moment. Charley. Charley the person. Why he was — he was him. He was looking at her, his eyes vulnerable, pleading with her to recognize him. She stood in the doorway and they looked at each other. And a revelation came, sharp, sudden, stinging her eyes. And in that moment she lost her child. This person was a stranger. But ineffably dear. She longed to know him. She would know him. He was worth knowing.
"Aw, Mom, you're crying. Mom. Don't cry. Mom. Where're you going?"
She did not cry. She laughed sheepishly instead. It was better. "I'm — going to burn up — throw out — some — a — collection of old books I've had hanging around. Psychology books. Stop chuckling. Both of you!"
She chuckled again, sitting there in church, thinking of it. Agatha's whisper brought her back with a jolt.
"Jane — Jane."
"Hm?"
"Isn't that Dr. Thornton over there? He's nodding to you, dear."
"Where? I can't see him without my glasses."
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"Well nod anyway, you goose. Over there."
"How do you do, Dr. Thornton." She mouthed it, and nodded.
"They're about to begin, dear." Agatha settled back and drew a big breath and it came out trembling. "This is going to be a big evening for all of us. Charley's ordination at last!"
An impressive looking procession filed out on the platform and there — was Charley. Jane caught her breath. There was Charley — tall — incredibly impressive — and his neck was clean!
"Nod back to him," Agatha said. "He's smiling at you."
Jane's throat was getting alarmingly tight. "Is he?" This would never do.
"Yes. Nod."
"I can't — see him."
Her eyes were blurred. He had been her little boy, and now — this! She hadn't prayed enough, she hadn't understood enough, and — most of all — she hadn't laughed enough. And yet God had been faithful. Oh, God had been good! She reached over and squeezed Agatha's hand. Yes — all in all — she'd got far better — than she deserved...
* * * * * * *
Now I must confess that the funniest incident in that story — the disastrous attempt to fix the "drip" — did not happen to us. It happened to my
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nephew Donald. And I might add he turned out very well. He's a brilliant college professor today and working on his doctorate — and did it all on scholarships! But as I said before, stories are drawn from the sum-total of the author's experience. And I have rich funds to draw on.
Charley was written mostly for fun. But if there was one admonition I did want to sneak in, it was that we — or at least many of us — do not laugh enough. We bring our children up with deadly seriousness, with a welter of charts and graphs, comparing them with the "norm" and looking at them with a jaundiced eye if they do not hit it. We lose sight of the fact that there is no norm.
Don't compare your child with other children — or with page thirty-six. Look at them and it, if you will, but don't compare. Your child is your child — not somebody else's child or the child on page thirty-six. He is the sum total of his genes and chromosomes and his environment. He is "him." Accept him as he is, God bless him, and don't try to make him someone else. Is he slow to learn? Edison was sent home from school because he apparently could not learn anything. Does he seem to have a pattern of failure? Abe Lincoln's whole life was pattern of apparent failure until he became president. On the human side, a sense of humor is one of the best traits you can have for parenthood. It smooths out the rocky places.
The serious should not be discounted of course.
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We are told that "Foolishness is bound in the heart of a child; but the rod of correction shall drive it far from him" (Prov. 22:15).
But the Bible also tells us that "A merry heart doeth good like a medicine" (Prov. 17:22).
And Christ Himself enjoyed sociability and fellowship. I am inclined to think He enjoyed merriment too, at the proper times and places. And I suppose that is, after all, the crux of the whole problem. In Ecclesiastes we are told: "To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven:... A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance..."
If we can discern the proper time for seriousness and the proper time for laughter — and get the correct ratio — we have, with prayer, an unbeatable formula from the Word of God. And the Word of God gives us the blessed, therapeutic, heart-warming privilege of merriment to relieve the tension, add spice to the humdrum, and alleviate the deadly serious business of being a parent.
Laughs? We had a million of them. But, looking back, I can see where we could have had a million more. Alas, we did not. And the fault is mine.
