December 28, 2013 ·
In the twilight years of her life, my beloved grandmother could not speak of one of her departed little ones, six decades after the loss, without tears streaking down her face. There is, in a cemetery in New Braunfels, a crudely graven headstone, handmade of concrete, over two tiny little graves. Barely visible are the words, written in 1919, “no se sabe lo que es sufrir, quien no ha perdido un nino amado”. Crudely written in simple wording, but in grief, so eloquent, it reads in its simplicity “no one can know what suffering is, until they have lost a beloved child.” Where does one turn for consolation?
“Master, with anguish of spirit I bow in my grief today The depths of my sad heart are troubled. Oh, waken and save, I pray!
The Lord is mindful. How infinite is His tenderness and love for little children! There is much comfort in the following translation from the King James Bible as recorded by Matthew. “Then were there brought unto him little children, that he should put his hands on them and pray. And the disciples rebuked them, saying, There is no need, for Jesus hath said, Such shall be saved. But Jesus said, Suffer little children to come unto me, and forbid them not, for of such is the kingdom of heaven.”
Can there be any doctrine so glorious as that, “Such shall be saved…of such is the kingdom of heaven?” I have a sure knowledge that no blessing shall be withheld from little ones who die before the age of accountability, all through the tender mercies of the Holy Messiah, He who died that we might live. Indeed, “Little children are redeemed from the foundation of the world through mine Only Begotten…” (Doctrine and Covenants 29:46)
“Among the beautiful pictures That hang on Memory’s wall, Is one of a dim old forest, That seemeth best of all; Not for its gnarled oaks olden, Dark with the mistletoe: Not for the violets golden That sprinkle the vale below; Not for the milk-white lilies That lean from the fragrant ledge, Coquetting all day with the sunbeams, And stealing their golden edge; Not for the vines on the upland, Where the bright red berries rest, Nor the pinks, nor the pale, sweet cowslip, It seemeth to me the best,
I once had a little brother With eyes that were dark and deep; In the lap of that dim old forest He lieth in peace asleep; Light as the down of the thistle, Free as the winds that blow, We roved there the beautiful summers, The summers of long ago; But his feet on the hills grew weary, And, one of the autumn eves, I made for my little brother A bed of the yellow leaves. Sweetly his pale arms folded My neck in a meek embrace, As the light of immortal beauty Silently covered his face; And when the arrows of sunset Lodged in the tree-tops bright, He fell, in his saint-like beauty, Asleep by the gates of light. Therefore, of all the pictures That hang on Memory’s wall, The one of the dim old forest Seemeth the best of all.” (Alice Carey)
“No tongue can speak, neither can there be written by any man, neither can the hearts of men conceive so great and marvelous things as we both saw and heard Jesus speak…Then Jesus wept, and said, “Behold your little ones….” (3 Nephi 17: 23-24)
Dear mothers, and fathers, grieving over the loss of little ones; as I live, and as you live, and as the Lord lives, know this: if you will live worthy of the privilege, you shall behold your little ones again, and you shall take them into your arms again, their tender caresses to enjoy. Of this I bear my sacred witness, in the hallowed name of Jesus Christ, amen.