Dear Fathers, Mothers

Media

Part of The Cross

Title: Dear Fathers, Mothers
extracted text: DECEMBER, 1952 59 Dear Fathers, Mothers by Alfredo, G. Porpan, S.J. Christmos is the story of how heoven and earth were reconciled through the birth of o Child, o beau tiful Child who grew to a strong and vigorous monhood, climbed o hill ond died on a cross ond rose again from the dead to show men the way to heoven where they may forever be hoppy in on eternal Christ mas with Him. And so, every yeor we celebrote the wondrous birth of thot wondrous Child who come to earth thot men may hove life ond hove it more abundantly, thot men moy have the love and peace ond hope they had hungered and craved for through the centuries. Christmas is the birthday of the God-mode-mon—thot is why it should meon so much for every mon. Christmas itself is the greatest, Christmas gift God ever gave to men. Is it o wonder, then, thot every child, that every man should have for Christmas the brightest twinkle in his eyes, the softest spot in hi's heorts, the sunniest smile? There is no mother ond fother on earth who do not desire, who will not spend os much os—ond even more than—their pocket books will allow to moke of Christmos the flop piest of days for their children. For deor mothers and fathers, nothing is more pleasant to your ears than the sound of your children's laughter; more heartwarming to your nothing heorts than the warmth of your children's pleased smiles. You re live once more, you recapture, you experience anew thot incomparable thrill of waking on a Christmas morn ing ond finding — oh! bliss of oil bliss! — your heart's desire—per haps a toy gun and a holster, a toy train or a rag doll! And to those of you who missed thot thrill in your own childhood and woke up many a Christmos morning never to find even the least semblance to what you had long wished for and desired, you ore the ones who ore fiercely determined now that your children will enjoy ond get what you never enjoyed ond got! 60 THE CROSS For even o child moy, early in life, leorn to hide beneath his silence and laughter his own little broken heart. Christmas is just a motter of weeks in coming. I'm sure you will do everything within your means to make this Christmos a reolly happy and memorable one for your little ones. Candies and toys, books ond extra clothes, shining gewgaws and fascinating little knick knacks so dear and precious to the hearts of children will not be wanting to them. Truly blessed ore your children to hove such parents as you. And thrice blessed—really and truly hap py will their waking be on Christ mas morning. But I would like to write to you also of other children, children who do not have parents such as you. They are the children of those who do not have the means thot you hove. They are the children of those who live in the quarters of our city that social workers coll the slums. They ore the children of the workingmen, the "have-nots," the poor whom you see everywhere around you. These are the children I want you to remember. They live ond sleep where you would not wish your own children to live and sleep —in dark ond dingy accesorias or flimsy, makeshift barong-barongs by foul smelling esteros. They do not eot whot your children eot ond take for granted—their doily bread ond butter, eggs, oatmeal and milk. They ore not clothed os your children ore clothed. Whot your children wear to school, they would consider their holiday best. They are the children of the poor. They have discovered early that Santo Claus was but a myth in dulged in only by the children of the rich. They know whot poverty is—cold, harsh, ugly, hungry, naked poverty. They live it. They also know whot wealth is—gaudy and glittering. They hove seen it dis played, paraded and flaunted before their eyes. Hove you not seen these children of the slums, these children of the poor? They olso have their own childhood to' enjoy as much as your little ones. And yet they have to be bootblacks, newsboys, peddlers and hawkers ot an age thot calls for play and study. Perhaps you have seen a group of them, their faces pressed against a department store window — o sight indeed for more eloquent than words. Perhaps you were a bit annoyed, and I do not blame you. For ill-blad, under nourished bodies, pinched cheeks and scrawny orms do not make these little ragamuffins of the streets very lovable creatures. But have you ever stopped to talk to one of them? Have you ever, looked down on lus terless eyes? They speak a mes sage of hunger and want. They are eyes thot plead more eloquently than pleading words' or pleading hands. These are the children I want you to remember. They also have a Christmab to celebrate. They hove also longed for Christmas. They will DECEMBER, 1952 61 also wake on Christmos morning. Christmas was olso meant for them. Christ, in fact, was bom os one of them. Christmas must never be "just another ordinary day" for them. The Christmas message of love, its hymn of peace, its note of hope must reach their young hearts ond worm their elders' hearts on Christmas. "Suffer the little children to come unto me, ond forbid them not" was the injunction of Christ. Suffer the children of the poor to learn olso the -message of the Crib! A certain holy bishop once preoched a sermon on the text that Christ will reward charity a hundredfold. There was a man named Evogrius in the congregation, ond after the sermon he went to the bishop and gave him. a large sum of money to be distributed to the poor. The bishop then gave him in return a letter in which he had written down the text containing Christ's promise to the charitable. The man died suddenly not long after, with the letter in his hond. Three days later he appeared in a dream to the bishop, ond said: "Come and take bock the letter; my reward is already received." The bishop and his clergy proceeded to the tomb, opened it, and took the letter, and they found written in place of the bishop's words-the following: "Evagrius to the bishop: I do not wish what has happened to me. God has indeed one hundred fold for all the money I gave you. you to remoin ignorant of already given me a reward You owe me nothing now." A graphic lesson in the folly of pride is contained in the following little incident. When the Italian statesman, Cavour, visited the emperor Napoleon III in 1859, he is soid to have remarked: "Do you know that there are only three men in Europe? We two ond Bismarck." Before many yeors elapsed, Napolen had died in exile. The life work of Cavour, the creation of the kingdom of Savoy, crashed into ruins with the death in exile of Victor Emmanuel III. Bismarck created the Hohenzollem ascendency; today it is only a memory. An Irishmon was planting trees in his yard when a lody passing asked: "You're digging out the holes, ore you, Mr. Haggerty?" "No, Mum, I'm diggin out the dirt an' lovin' the holes."
Date: 1952
Rights