HEARTWARMING ITEMS ABOUT MOTHER
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01 -- ROCK ME TO SLEEP
By Elizabeth Akers
None but Christ can evoke the longing memories of one of her children. This poem by Elizabeth Akers can cause a love-hungry soul to throb with deep longings for a mother's tender care in years gone by. How wonderful that as Christians we constantly HAVE that tender care from our Loving Savior -- and, if we are true, SHALL HAVE it throughout Eternity! -- DVM
Backward, turn backward, O Time, in your flight,
Make me a child again, just for tonight.
Mother, come back from the echoless shore,
Take me again to your heart as of yore;
Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care,
Smooth the few silver threads out of my hair;
Over my slumbers your loving watch keep;
Rock me to sleep, mother, -- rock me to sleep!
Backward, flow backward, O tide of the years!
I am so weary of toil and of tears,
Toil without recompense, tears all in vain,
Take them, and give me my childhood again!
I have grown weary of dust and decay,
Weary of flinging my soul-wealth away;
Weary of sowing for others to reap;
Rock me to sleep, mother, -- rock me to sleep!
Tired of the hollow, the base, the untrue,
Mother, O mother, my heart calls for you!
Many a summer the grass has grown green,
Blossomed and faded, our faces between:
Yet with strong yearning and passionate pain,
Long I tonight for your presence again.
Come from the silence so long and so deep;
Rock me to sleep, mother, -- rock me to sleep!
Over my heart, in the days that are flown
No love like mother-love ever has shone;
No other worship abides and endures,--
Faithful, unselfish, and patient, like yours:
None like a mother can charm away pain
From the sick soul and the world-weary brain.
Slumber's soft calms o'er my heavy lids creep;--
Rock me to sleep, mother, -- rock me to sleep!
Come, let your brown hair, just lighted with gold.
Fall on your shoulders again as of old;
Let it drop over my forehead tonight,
Shading my faint eyes away from the light;
For with its sunny-edged shadows once more
Haply will throng the sweet visions of yore;
Lovingly, softly, its bright billows sweep;
Rock me to sleep, mother, -- rock me to sleep!
Mother, dear mother, the years have been long
Since I last listened your lullaby song:
Sing, then, and unto my soul it shall seem
Womanhood's years have been only a dream.
Clasped to your heart in a loving embrace,
With your light lashes just sweeping my face,
Never hereafter to wake or to weep;
Rock me to sleep, mother, -- rock me to sleep!
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02 -- ARE YOU STILL COMING OVER?
I read about a woman who telephoned a friend and asked how she was feeling, "Terrible," came the reply over the wire, "my head's splitting and my back and legs are killing me. The house is a mess, and the kids are simply driving me crazy." Very sympathetically the caller said, "Listen, go and lie down, I'll come over right away and cook lunch for you, clean up the house, and take care of the children while you get some rest. By the way, how is Sam?" "Sam?" the complaining housewife grasped. "I have no husband named Sam." "My heavens," exclaimed the first woman, "I must have dialed the wrong number." There was a long pause. "Are you still coming over?" the harried mother asked hopefully. -- Bobby Moore [If the caller was a loving Christian, lived close enough, and was able to do so, hopefully, she DID go over and help the harried mother. -- DVM]
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03 -- THE SOUND THAT BROUGHT IMMEDIATE RESPONSE
In "Bold to Say," Austin Pardue tells about a woman who lived on a busy street corner in the heart of a large city. One hot summer night she retired early. The telephone rang, but she slept through it. Loud music blasted from a passing "boom box," but she slept through that. The children raided the refrigerator and played the stereo at full volume, but she slept through all of that too. Then, a remarkable thing happened. From the back room, at the opposite end of the house, came a little voice that called, "Mommy," and immediately the woman jumped out of bed and rushed to the side of her three-year- old daughter. There probably aren't any scientific studies to prove it, but we all know that mothers can hear their children's slightest cries from great distances. [Still, better is the mother who trains up her children in the way they should go -- not allowing such raucus stereo and boom-box playing! -- DVM]
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04 -- THOUGH THE PRODIGAL HAD NOT RETURNED
She waited for the call that never came;
Searched every mail for a letter, or a note, or card,
That bore his name;
And on her knees at night, and on her feet all day,
She stormed Heaven's Gate in his behalf;
She pled for him in Heaven's high court.
"Be still, and wait," the word He gave;
And so she knew He would do in, and for, and with him,
That which she never could.
Doubts ignored, she went about her chores with joy;
Knowing, though spurned, His word was true.
The prodigal had not returned but God was God,
And there was work to do.
-- From Sitting By My Laughing Fire, by Ruth Bell Graham,
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05 -- ARE ALL THE CHILDREN IN?
I think ofttimes as the night draws nigh
Of an old house on the hill,
Of a yard all wide and blossom-starred
Where the children played at will,
And when the night at last came down,
Hushing the merry din,
Mother would look around and ask,
"Are all the children in?"
'Tis many and many a year since then,
And the old house on the hill
No longer echoes to childish feet,
And the yard is still, so still.
But I see it all, as the shadows creep,
And though many the years have been
Since then, I can hear my mother ask,
"Are all the children in?"
I wonder if when the shadows fall
On the last short, earthly day,
When we say good-bye to the world outside,
All tired with our childish play,
When we step out into that Other Land
Where Mother so long has been,
Will we hear her ask, just as of old,
"Are all the children in?"
-- Florence Jones Hadley
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06 -- THEY STEERED BY MOTHER'S LIGHT
A very beautiful story is related of a boat out at sea, carrying in it a father and his little daughter. As they were steering for the shore, they were overtaken by a violent storm which threatened to destroy them. The coast was dangerous. The mother lighted a lamp and started up the worn stairway to the attic window. "It won't do any good, mother," the son called after her. But the mother went up, put the light in the window, knelt beside it, and prayed. Out in the storm, the daughter saw a glimmer of gold on the water's edge. "Steer for that," the father said. Slowly, but steadily, they came toward the light and at last were anchored in the little, sheltered cottage by the harbor.
"Thank God!" cried the mother as she heard their glad voices, and came down the stairway with a lamp in her hand. "How did you get here?" she said. "We steered by mother's light," answered the daughter, "although we did not know what it was out there." "Ah," thought the boy, a wayward boy, "it is time I was steering by my mother's light." And e'er he slept, he surrendered himself to God and asked him to guide him over life's rough sea.
Months went by, and disease smote him. "He can't live long," was the verdict of the doctor; and one stormy night he lay dying. "Do not be afraid for me," he said as they wept, "I shall make the harbor, for I am steering by my mother's light." -- Sent Of God
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07 -- MOTHER'S TOUCH
Nowhere, is a mother's hand and a mother's voice forgotten. During our late Civil War, a mother was telegraphed: "Come to the front. Your boy is seriously wounded." She left on the first train, and when she arrived where her boy was being cared for, the lady of the home met her at the door, and was asked if a wounded soldier boy was in the house. "Yes," the lady replied, "and we are expecting his mother." "I am his mother," she said, "where is my boy?" "He is in his room. The doctors are in there now, but they will be out in a moment or two."
Directly, the doctors came out, and she introduced herself, but they said: "We are glad you have come, but you mustn't go in where your boy is. His fever is so high, and his nervous system on such a tension that if you walked into his room, the excitement of seeing you, his mother, might produce death. We will be back early in the morning, and we will let you know when you can see him." The mother stayed in the adjoining room all night, listening to the cries and moans of her poor wounded boy. But in the morning the doctors only said: "You can't see your boy this morning. He is still delirious, and it would be a dangerous thing to let you into his room."
But when they all went away, she slipped down the hall with the tread of a cat, and she went in at the open door of her boy's room, and stole past the nurse to the side of his bed. She stood there a moment, listened to his cries, watched the nervous twitching of his body, and then she began to stroke his forehead with her hand. Her boy passed off into a quiet sleep, and the nervous twitching all stopped. He lay perfectly quiet for a moment, and then he said, without moving his position, "Oh, how like my mother's hand!" -- Sam Jones
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08 -- WHAT WAS IN HER HEART
A very pretty story is told by Mr. Stuart Robertson in his delightful book of "Talks to Children." A little girl was sitting on her mother's knee. She was very fond of her mother. She called her, her "very own mother," and like one who was rejoicing over very precious treasures she was touching, one after the other, the features of her mother's face with her little fingers -- her mother's lips, her eyes, her cheeks, her hair. After a while she said, "Mummy, can I see your heart?" The mother said, "I don't know about that, but you can look into my eyes, and see if you can see anything." The child climbed up and peered in; and then she cried out gleefully, "I can see your heart, Mummy, and there is a wee girl away in there, and it's me!" -- Sunday School Times
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09 -- MY BOY IS NOT DEAD
Dr. Thomas N. Carter, the ex-convict, tells a thrilling story of the faith of his mother, who followed him with her prayers for many years until she listened to him preach the gospel in answer to her prayer. On one occasion, while he was in prison, his mother received a telegram from the prison stating that her son was dead, and asked what she wanted done with his body. His mother was stunned at receipt of the telegram for a few minutes, then retired to her prayer closet after instructing others in the house not to disturb her. She got her Bible and opening it, spread it before her, with the telegram beside it. "Oh, God," she began, "I have believed the promise you gave me in your Word, that I would live to see Tom saved and preach the Gospel, and now a telegram comes saying he is dead. Lord, which is true, this telegram or your Word?" When she rose from her knees, having won the victory, she wired the prison: "There must be some mistake. My boy is not dead." And there was a mistake. Tom Carter lived and was recently in our church preaching, with his mother seated on the platform. -- Sunday School Times
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