My oldest son worked hard to rake the leaves
Into a corner of our yard. Proud to prove
What all his sweat and effort had achieved,
He took my hand, suggesting where he’d move
The rest tomorrow, to be burned. I gave
Five dollars for the work, advising one
To spend, one to tithe, the other three, to save.
Surely, some righteous zeal to see my son
Budget his labor’s fruit with godly care
Weighed heavy on my mind. May God forgive
What scorn I showed to him, when saying there
Were reasons, he supposed, for giving
All his earnings to our church, his youthful eyes
Yearning for me to say that he was wise.
—Brandon Chasteen
YOU MIGHT ALSO LIKE
Trump Doesn’t Forgive His Enemies. Do We?
When Ross Douthat, a Catholic, sat down with Donald Trump in the Oval Office and asked whether…
The Politics of Lovingkindness
The books of Samuel begin and end with portraits of kings. When Israel asks for a “king…
The New Benefit of Clergy
On November 9, Russell Brand was sentenced to over ten years in prison for one count of…
