Click the here to return to How Sweet the Sound and Beverly's Pink Saturday. It doesnt really feel too much like Mother's Day...
even though today all three of the main women in our family are mothers. My wonderful mother is 91 and living under Hospice care in a nursing facility.... it is heart breaking to see her in such decline.... she weighs 85 pounds now. Tomorrow I am taking a Mother's day church service to her... I am singing ( with a wee change in the lyrics)
Faith of our mothers, living still
In cradle song and bedtime prayer;
In nursery lore and fireside love,
Thy presence still pervades the air:
Faith of our mothers, living faith!
We will be true to thee to death.
Faith of our mothers, loving faith,
Fount of our childhood’s trust and grace,
Oh, may thy consercration prove
Source of a finer, nobler race:
Faith of our mothers, living faith,
We will be true to thee till death.
Faith of our mothers, guiding faith,
For youthful longing, youthful doubt,
How blurred our vision, blind our way,
Thy providential care without:
Faith of our mothers, guiding faith,
We will be true to thee till death.
Faith of our mothers, Christian faith,
Is truth beyond our stumbling creeds,
Still serve the home and save the Church,
And breathe thy spirit through our deeds:
Faith of our mothers, Christian faith!
We will be true to thee till death.
I am so thankful that I
still have mom with us ... Dad passed away at Christmas , after 70 years of marriage, mom just hasnt been the same.
Our only daughter, Amanda became a mommie this past year.... what a wonderful joy that is in our lives.
the only problem is they live so far away, but they're coming next weekend! Rejoicing!!!!
I think back over the last time we were together
Mom, Amanda and Birdie were together after dad's funeral.
When I see mom's hands today, they are so frail,,, if only they talk and tell me their story. They'd say...
Mother’s
Hands
Clasping
me to her breast, I snuggled ever closer,
Completely
safe in her warm embrace.
Reaching
out for me as I toddled ever forward
Tucking
my hand into her’s with pride and grace.
Clapping
hands to ‘Three men in a Tub, rub-a-dub-dub,”
Hands
that pulled me close for a rollicking hug, a giggle, a sigh,
Intimacy
with mommy, when I was five.
Splaying
fingers through the dirt, ridding weeds,
Training
mine to sow some seeds.
Peeling
apples in one long peel, peeling ‘taters’ and ‘tomaters’,
Always
peeling something that would eventually delight.
Feeding
laundry through the rollers of the back porch washer,
Pinning
sheets and towels on the line to dry.
Folding
heaps and heaps of linens, ironing, starching, every day
Taking
care of business was grueling work, with very little play.
Pinning
patterns to the fabric, pinning darts here, just right,
Pinning
hems and laces, designing clothes for me at night.
Traipsing
fingers along the keys, I loved to hear
God’s melodies, What a Friend We Have in Jesus, Trust and Obey: so many hymns
etched on my heart through the tunes that she’d play.
Loving
touches only she could minister; a cool hand on my fevered brow,
a silent
tummy rub when I felt ill.
An
understanding pat upon on a troubled shoulder,
A gentle
hug when feelings smoldered.
Making
late night goodies for dad and for me,
Sometimes
orange and cinnamon buns straight from an oven warm
Sometimes
it was popcorn all buttery and fresh,
But
always it was homemade things she’d learned growing up on the farm.
Loving
hands that tucked me into bed each night,
Then
folded into prayer, teaching me to trust in God
To give
Him all my cares.
Holding
her Bible in deep, reverent study,
Demonstrating
her need to know more of Her Lord.
Leading
her study group on Sunday morning
Pointing
out truths, a divine smorgasboard.
All of
these things done by the power within her
Sharing
God’s love deep within her He’d poured.
When I
was growing older we’d place our hands before us.
I’d
marvel how wondrously they were alike: a fine treasure,
I
declared, “I have my mother’s hands” with pride and pleasure.
That
thought always spurred me on to demonstrate the memory
Through
the service of my own hands -the bliss her hands had always wrought.
Whenever
through the hard tasks I trod to make a house a home,
My hands
have played the integral part- shadows of mother’s hands I’ve known.
Now
whene’er we place our hands before us I almost shudder at what I see. Gnarly,
withered, and arthritic, fingers worn are they,
yet they
reach out for mine in love’s pure grasp display.
I am just
so glad that I still can cling to those hands and with our heads bent close,
recount the tales of old, of days gone by, memories cherished in the heart!.
Proverbs
31:31 Give her the reward she has earned,
and let
her works bring her praise at the city gate.
