A well know television series of the fifties began its episodes with:
For as long as I could remember, the small cottage on Castro Street had been home. The familiar background was there; Papa, my only brother, Nels, my sister, Christine, closest to me in age, yet ever secret and withdrawn — and the littlest sister, Dagmar. But most of all —
I Remember Mama
An old Jewish Proverb states: God could not be everywhere; therefore, he made mothers. Neal A. Maxwell said, “God trusts women so much that He lets them bare and care for His spirit children.”
Who can measure a mother’s love? A love that speaks of acceptance without conditions. A love that willingly accepts the travail of birth and of nurturing an infant. A love that soothes away the real and imagined ills and hurts of childhood. A love that provides guidance to a teen when needed. Guidance that is often unsought and rejected but still given with hope and love. A love that releases a young adult from her nest to brave the world while she prays mightily that her child will succeed. A love that through the eyes of empathy watches as her child passes over the path she has trod as she becomes a grandmother. Yes, this world would be a far better place if everyone loved one another with a mother’s love. This is because mother’s love is the true essence of charity. And charity is the pure love of Christ, and it endureth forever; and whoso is found possessed of it at the last day, it shall be well with him.
There is a story about four clergymen who were discussing the merits of the various translations of the Bible. One liked the King James Version best because of its simple, beautiful English. Another liked the American Revised Version best because it is more literal and comes nearer to the original Hebrew and Greek. Still another liked Moffat’s translation because of its up-to-date vocabulary. The fourth minister was silent. When asked to express his opinion, he replied, “I like my mother’s translation best.” The other three expressed surprise. They did not know that his mother had translated the Bible. “Yes, she did,” he replied. “She translated it into life, and it was the most convincing translation I ever saw.”
I have been blessed in this life to have the eternal love of two women. Two women who have seen past my many faults and found some good in me. Two beautiful daughters of God who with Ruth of old said, “Entreat me not to leave thee, or to return from following after thee: for whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge: thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God: Where thou diest, will I die, and there will I be buried: the Lord do so to me, and more also, if ought but death part thee and me.” (Ruth 1:16-17)
The first gave birth to our eight beautiful daughters and nurtured them along this journey we call life. These, too, are now mothers and some of their daughters also as the generations roll on. The second joined me in the twilight of this life after she had raised her son and daughter and we had each lost our first love to death. How grateful I am that they chose to be so much a part of my life. The joy that has been mine because of their unselfish and unconditional love cannot be measured. How grateful I am that God in His infinite wisdom sent them to help me bear life’s load. I am grateful also for the wisdom they have provided to our posterity, the rising generations, through the years. On this Mother’s Day, I honor them and with them — All Mothers.
And Adam called his wife’s name Eve; because she was the mother of all living. (Gen 3:20) Fathers, do you ever consider your wife as Eve? After all, she is the mother of all “your” living. The greatest gift a father can give his children is to love their mother. This is why he should always be good to her and treat her like a queen. For no man can belittle a daughter of God without offending her Father.
We all need to be mindful that the strength of a nation is not in its armies but in the faith of its mothers. Mothers who teach the rising generation day by day to be good and strong and true their whole life through.
The Watcher
by Margaret Widdemer (1884-1978)
She always leaned to watch for us,
Anxious if we were late,
In winter by the window,
In summer by the gate.
And though we mocked her tenderly,
Who had such foolish care,
The long way home would seem more safe
Because she waited there.
Her thoughts were all so full of us,
She never could forget!
And so I think that where she is
She must be watching yet.
Waiting till we come home to her,
Anxious if we are late,
Watching from Heaven’s window,
Leaning on Heaven’s gate.
May God Bless and Save the United States of America —
Our Constitutional Republic !
