I think we forget that sometimes. I think we get all caught up in the dailies that we miss a whole bunch of the deeper importance and imperatives of motherhood. I think in the busyness of life we forget the deeper calling, the noble endeavor and the consequences of how we spend our time and our days and the evidence of what we become devoted to or distracted by — a sobering reality is the evidence of the work of our hands. O, may the Lord be our guiding Light.
O— I know I need the messages of Mother’s Day… the praises, the cards, the gifts and the favours — even though and even when I feel so unworthy of all the cards and their lofty sentiments. But in an attempt to avoid the attention of selfcenteredly denying being a worthy recipient, I have continually thought: O Lord, please help me to get and keep my eyes off myself and my perceived failings and help me to keep my eyes upon You — for all that I have has come from You — my gifts, my possessions and my calling. O Lord, all of this, all of these things I see I have and have failed so many times — well, Lord, I can do nothing to change — but I ask Your mercy and Your favour, Lord, for all I’m doing and all that I’m called to do… O Lord, may I be wise and may I be noble as I live out the rest of my days and may my motherhood be an honour to me and to You and may it be said of me that I trusted in You. May it be said of me… I waited on You.
I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to come to the place where I feel that the hand that rocked my baby’s cradle ruled the world — nor can I fathom feeling adequate for the task I’ve been given… but I do pray that in the end I will have been found faithful and I pray that my children will see that it was such an honour for me to be their mother. I pray they’ll know how grateful I was for the indescribable awe and privilege to carry them.
O, what a privilege — a blessing and honour — to be a mother and a family.
Some precious poems that inspire… encouragement for Mother’s Happy Day….
This one, by William Allingham was given to me several years ago in a Mother’s Day card… Timothy said he had been searching for a suitable quote or poem for my card… It’s very… Timothy.
“Before a day was over,
Home comes the rover,
For mother’s kiss—sweeter this
Than any other thing!”
That was the last stanza of the poem Wishing, by William Allingham — think you’ve never heard of him?
The opening lines from Allingham’s poem The Fairies was quoted by the character of The Tinker near the beginning of the movie Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory.
“Up the airy mountain
down the rushing glen
we daren’t go a-hunting
for fear of little men…”
One of my favourite poems of all… by Edgar Guest — my friend, Carolyn, read this poem as part of her devotional at a baby shower given in honour of our sixth baby. It was a beautiful time… this poem always reminds me of that and all the many ways God has used the words of this poem to comfort and encourage me through the years as a “mother of many.”
Tied Down
“They tie you down,” a woman said,
Whose cheeks should have been flaming red
With shame to speak of children so.
“When babies come you cannot go
In search of pleasure with your friends,
And all your happy wandering ends.
The things you like you cannot do,
For babies make a slave of you.”
I looked at her and said, “’Tis true
That children make a slave of you,’
And tie you down with many a knot,
But have you never thought to what
It is of happiness and pride
That little babies have you tied?
Do you not miss the greater joys
That come with little girls and boys?
They tie you down to laughter rare,
To hours of smiles and hours of care,
To nights of watching and to fears;
Sometimes they tie you down to tears
And then repay you with a smile,
And make your trouble all worth while.
They tie you fast to chubby feet
And cheeks of pink and kisses sweet.
They fasten you with cords of love
To God divine, who reigns above.
They tie you, whereso’er you roam,
Unto the little place called home;
And over sea or railroad track
They tug at you to bring you back.
The happiest people in the town
Are those the babies have tied down.
Oh, go your selfish way and free
But hampered I would rather be,
Yes rather than a kingly crown
I would be, what you term, tied down;
Tied down to dancing eyes and charms,
Held fast by chubby, dimpled arms,
The fettered slave of girl and boy,
And win from them earth’s finest joy.
~ Edgar A. Guest
And another “Mother’s Day” Poem…
I treasure poems by James Whitcomb Riley so much more after seeing the Indiana home in which he lived and wrote stories and poetry. I’ll never forget its simplicity or its grandeur. It’s kind of a bittersweet thought to consider he never had children, never married and so never personally experienced many of the things he wrote about. I recall, as we toured his home, being keenly aware of the solitariness of his life and the seeming stark simplicity of his existence.
A BOY’S MOTHER
MY mother she’s so good to me,
Ef I was good as I could be,
I couldn’t be as good—no, sir!—
Can’t any boy be good as her!
She loves me when I’m glad er sad;
She loves me when I’m good er bad;
An’, what’s a funniest thing, she says
She loves me when she punishes.
I don’t like her to punish me.—
That don’t hurt,—but it hurts to see
Her cryin’.—Nen I cry; an’ nen
We both cry an’ be good again.
She loves me when she cuts an’ sews
My little cloak an’ Sund’y clothes;
An’ when my Pa comes home to tea,
She loves him most as much as me.
She laughs an’ tells him all I said,
An’ grabs me up an’ pats my head;
An’ I hug her, an’ hug my Pa
An’ love him purt’ nigh as much as as Ma.
James Whitcomb Riley 1849-1916
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The Hand That Rocks The Cradle
Is The Hand That Rules The World
BLESSINGS on the hand of women!
Angels guard its strength and grace.
In the palace, cottage, hovel,
Oh, no matter where the place;
Would that never storms assailed it,
Rainbows ever gently curled,
For the hand that rocks the cradle
Is the hand that rules the world.
Infancy’s the tender fountain,
Power may with beauty flow,
Mothers first to guide the streamlets,
From them souls unresting grow—
Grow on for the good or evil,
Sunshine streamed or evil hurled,
For the hand that rocks the cradle
Is the hand that rules the world.
Woman, how divine your mission,
Here upon our natal sod;
Keep—oh, keep the young heart open
Always to the breath of God!
All true trophies of the ages
Are from mother-love impearled,
For the hand that rocks the cradle
Is the hand that rules the world.
Blessings on the hand of women!
Fathers, sons, and daughters cry,
And the sacred song is mingled
With the worship in the sky—
Mingles where no tempest darkens,
Rainbows evermore are hurled;
For the hand that rocks the cradle
Is the hand that rules the world.
William Ross Wallace (1819-1891)
God bless you, dear mother… today and every day you live and serve your family, tenderly guide your home and give glory and honour to the Lord.
Today