LOVE THAT LASTS FOREVER: Beautiful, Dedicated to My Mother

MotherSon

I thank the Lord I still have mine here to talk to.

Love That Lasts Forever: by Rev. John George Gibson 

She told me she loved me. She said I was her darling. She said I was more to her than all the boys in the world. She said I was all her own. Then she said I was handsome, and prophesied that years would bring health and position. She did more—she kissed me. Into that kiss she put the feeling of a life-time; all the hopes of an eternity.

When sickness came she was present—ready like a ministering angel to wait or serve. Her kindly hand drawn softly across the fevered brow stole away the fever and deadened the pain. She would hold the patient’s hand in hers till he was calm enough to sleep, and then with that hand in his he would dream of a life without sickness and disappointments. After a long while he would waken to find her still there, holding his hand. “You have had a good sleep?” Yes. But how much of it was due to that waiting, sitting presence that never moved while the sleep lasted?

Years passed. I grew older, she grew older. There was no separation. I needed her, she needed me, so the life of service continued. The home was mine, the service was hers. The position was mine, the satisfaction was hers. She knew no life but the life she lived in me and for me. Every service done for me was to her full of beauty. She did not care to be seen as long as I was noticed, or heard while I was listened to. First in the morning to make all things ready, last at night to see that all things were safe.

People wondered why she was so quiet, they thought it strange she never came to the front. She gave no reasons. She knew; I knew. I was the fruit of her work, her waiting and nursing. She had preserved my life; without her the feeble spark would have gone out. She found her life in mine. Mine was younger, more expressive and up-to-date, and therefore she was content. If I spoke well it was because she had acted well. If I had climbed to a position it was because she had given me the strength to climb. If my life was public it was because hers had been so faithfully private.

Still the years passed, years that will never be described in book 01 on platform. They were our years. With them the public never had any business and never will have. Our home life was sacred. Those who tried to look through the key hole did it to their sorrow. We kept our home as our temple, and told none of its mystic rites. The sacrifices we offered were our own. The prayers we spoke and the confessions we made were our own.

As we lived and worshipped and suffered I noticed she was not what she once was. Too much watching, too much service had weakened her physical powers— she was failing. Then her love had been too strong. It had burned so brightly that the frail lamp had cracked.

Her eyes lost their brightness, and the lines appeared on her face. The summer of life was passing—the autumn with its new tints, its shadows and falling leaves, was coming.

Yes, sadness was coming and we could not prevent it. We had journeyed together so long that we never thought the parting of the ways would come; but they did come. It is always the unexpected that happens. I must go, she must remain. The parting hour came— “goodbye.”

“Why do we say it when the tears are starting?
Why must a word so sweet bring only pain?
Our love seems all-sufficient till the parting,
And then we feel so impotent and vain.”

The embrace, the soft cheek pressed against mine’ the white face looking out of the window, the waving hand,and

“The deed is done,
But now I go and go alone.”

For her the change was too great. The dear, faithful soul could not bear to live with only the memories of the past around her. One year passed, and before I could receive word the white-robed minister had laid her to rest beside other weary pilgrims. He did it kindly, not officially, for he was not chosen because of his white robe. He had been a true friend in the days of sickness. And she sleep well, though her grave is not marked. Eight years have passed and no fresh flowers have been laid upon it. History will never know her name. Charity will never raise a monument to her virtues. She never was rewarded and never will be rewarded by material things, but

“From ouf the past
Looks forth that face to cheer me.
Oh, do not ask me to forget
If memory brings her near me,”

And away in the Golden West—seven thousand miles from that grave—there are two lives that flow in one channel; two hearts that beat in one rhythm—one quiet, the other public; one unknown, the other prominent—and their sweetest memories, their closest communion, their dreams of heaven are found in that one simple word—mother.

“Nearer and nearer day by day.
The distant voice doth come;
Soft through the pearly gate it swells
And seems to call us home.”

A MOTHER’S PICTURE By Edmund Clarence Stedman

YoungMother

A MOTHER’S PICTURE By Edmund Clarence Stedman

She seemed an angel to our infant eyes!
Once, when the glorifying moon revealed
Her who at evening by our pillow kneeled —
Soft-voiced and golden-haired, from holy skies
Flown to her loves on wings of Paradise —
We looked to see the pinions half-concealed.
The Tuscan vines and olives will not yield
Her back to me, who loved her in this wise,
And since have little known her, but have grown
To see another mother, tenderly,
Watch over sleeping darlings of her own;
Perchance the years have changed her: yet alone
This picture lingers: still she seems to me
The fair, young Angel of my infancy.

BEFORE IT IS TOO LATE By George Bancroft Griffith

If you have a gray-haired mother
In the old home far away,
Sit you down and write the letter
You put off from day to day.
Don’t wait until her weary steps
Reach Heaven’s pearly gate,
But show her that you think of her,
Before it is too late.

If you have a tender message,
Or a loving word to say,
Don’t wait till you forget it,
But whisper it to-day.
Who knows what bitter memories
May haunt you if you wait?
So make your loved one happy
Before it is too late.

The tender word unspoken,
The letters never sent,
The long forgotten messages,
The wealth of love unspent;
For these some hearts are breaking,
For these some loved ones wait;
Show them that you care for them
Before it is too late.

MOTHER AND CHILD By William Gilmore Simms

mother-and-child

MOTHER AND CHILD By William Gilmore Simms

The wind blew wide the casement, and within —
It was the loveliest picture! — a sweet child
Lay in its mother’s arms, and drew its life,
In pauses, from the fountain,— the white round
Part shaded by loose tresses, soft and dark,
Concealing, but still showing, the fair realm
Of so much rapture, as green shadowing trees
With beauty shroud the brooklet. The red lips
Were parted, and the cheek upon the breast
Lay close, and, like the young leaf of the flower,
Wore the same color, rich and warm and fresh:
And such alone are beautiful. Its eye,
A full blue gem, most exquisitely set,
Looked archly on its world,— the little imp,
As if it knew even then that such a wreath
Were not for all; and with its playful hands
It drew aside the robe that hid its realm,
And peeped and laughed aloud, and so it laid
Its head upon the shrine of such pure joys,
And, laughing, slept. And while it slept, the tears
Of the sweet mother fell upon its cheek,—
Tears such as fall from April skies, and bring
The sunlight after. They were tears of joy;
And the true heart of that young mother then
Grew lighter, and she sang unconsciously
The silliest ballad-song that ever yet
Subdued the nursery’s voices, and brought sleep
To fold her sabbath wings above its couch.

MOTHER By Kathleen Norms, 1911

As years ago we carried to your knees
The tales and treasures of eventful days,
Knowing no deed too humble for your praise,
Nor any gift too trivial to please,
So still we bring, with older smiles and tears,
What gifts we may, to claim the old, dear right;
Your faith, beyond the silence and the night,
Your love still close and watching through the years.

THE MOTHER’S PRAYER

Fain, O my child, I’d have thee know,
The God whom angels love:
And teach thee feeble strains below,
Akin to theirs above.

O when thy lisping tongue shall read
Of truths divinely sweet,
May’st thou, a little child indeed,
Sit down at Jesus’ feet.

I ‘ll move thine ear, I ‘ll point thine eye —
But ah! the inward part —
Great God, the Spirit! hear the sigh
That trembles through my heart!

Break, with thy vital beam benign,
O’er all the mental wild!
Bright o’er the human chaos shine,
And sanctify my child.

By Mrs Vokk in Hymns for Mothers and Children, Volume 1

“Mother is a sacred name! Where is the heart in which it does not awaken the most affectionate recollections and tender emotions; A mother’s bosom has been the sanctuary where we have fled in all our infant troubles; a mother’s care has preserved us amidst the helplessness of infancy, and the dangers of childhood. A mother’s influence, in the formation of society, is greater than that of the senator who framed its laws. We hail, therefore, every effort to guide females in their duties; to impress them with their responsibility; and to awaken them to unremitting diligence in the onerous engagements of the important relations they sustain. ~ Excerpt from Mother’s Magazine, Volume 1 published 1833