The Candies in His Pocket

A retelling for children, based on Mahmúd's Diary, from the many entries written during 'Abdu'l-Bahá's journey across America in 1912.

Imagine you are a child in a crowded room. Grown-ups fill every chair. They have all come to listen to a great visitor from far away, and they are leaning forward, very quiet, hanging on His every word.

You are small. You can barely see over their shoulders. Surely a day like this is for the grown-ups, and a child like you will simply have to wait, and stay quiet, and not be any trouble.

But this visitor was 'Abdu'l-Bahá. And 'Abdu'l-Bahá did something that surprised everyone.

In city after city — in New York, in Chicago, in Washington, in San Francisco, and in the quiet hills of New Hampshire — the same thing happened wherever He went. The parents would bring their children to the meetings, and 'Abdu'l-Bahá would stop. If He was in the middle of giving a talk, He would pause. If a meal was being served and He had a spoon in His hand, He would set it down. Everything else could wait. The children had come.

He called them close to Him, and He made no difference between any of them. There were Persian children and American children. There were children whose families had just arrived in a new country, and children from rich and important families. There were white children and Black children. To 'Abdu'l-Bahá they were all simply children, all equally welcome, all drawn near to His knee.

Then He would do the loveliest thing of all. He would talk with them — not just to them. He would ask each child their name. He would ask how old they were. He would ask what they had been doing that very day. And then He would listen. He listened so carefully, and looked at them so kindly, that years and years later, when those children had grown all the way up, they still remembered it. No other grown-up had ever paid attention to them quite like that.

And here is the part you have been waiting for. 'Abdu'l-Bahá kept candies in His pocket. Not by accident — on purpose! He knew the children would come, and so He came ready for them. To each child He gave a sweet. He would press it gently into the small open hand, and close the little fingers around it, so it was truly theirs to keep.

Then He would kiss the child softly on the cheek and turn them back toward their mother or father. And only then would the talk go on, or the meal continue.

Many of those children never knew, on that day, what a gift they had been given. Some of them remembered only that a kind old gentleman in a white robe had handed them a candy and had listened to them as if they were the most important visitor in the whole room. When they grew up, some of them did great things for the world. Others simply grew up to be kind — and gave the very same gentle love to their own children one day.

A candy in a pocket is such a small thing. But it tells us something big: 'Abdu'l-Bahá never thought a child was too little to matter. He stopped for them. He learned their names. He remembered to bring something sweet. And that is how we know we are truly loved — when someone is never too busy to stop, and listen, and make room for us.

This is a retelling for children. For the fuller account, see "He Always Had Time for Them: 'Abdu'l-Bahá with the Children".

Maḥmúd-i-Zarqání, M.. (1998). *Mahmúd's Diary: The Diary of Mírzá Maḥmúd-i-Zarqání*. George Ronald.