Since Sunday is Mother’s Day, I thought I would share some of the poems, notes, etc. that I have collected over the years about Mother’s Day. Hope you enjoy them.
MOTHER’S WINGS
When they were little boys, I’d try
To dry each tearful, tiny eye---
To pick them up each time they’d fall--
And calm their fears, both great and small.
A mother hen, with wings outstretched,
In memory, the scene is etched,
Of me, their mother, hovering near---
Protecting them, my children dear.
As time passed by, how they did grow!
Those little boys, whom I loved so!
Yes, they grew tall—shed childish things,
No longer fitting ‘neath my wings.
Then by and by, I knew that they
With their own wings, would fly away!
No longer boys, but young men each,
At last, they flew out of my reach!
Though as a “Mom”, I’d done my best,
With pain, I viewed my empty nest.
The pain of birth, by mothers shared,
Is mild, when to this pain compared.
But now, God’s Spirit comforts me!
I look into His Book and see
His wings protect my precious two,
Far better than my own can do!
This was written by Nancy Pearl Walker, a dear Christian lady that attends my church. She writes such beautiful poetry and you know it all comes straight from her heart.
The next item is from an article in the Coastland Times several years ago. Judge Edgar L. Barnes used to have a column called “View from the Bench” and this is his article for Mother’s Day.
It has been so aptly said that the mother holds the key of the soul; and she is it who stamps the coin of character, and makes the being who would be a savage but for her gentle caress, a (moral) man.
This week we set aside a day to honor our beloved mothers, of course conceding that a century of days would be inadequate to accomplish this aim, but not to try would be the epitome of irreverence.
Dear Mama,
Thank you for giving me birth when your doctors encouraged you not to let my budding life continue. Thank you for rocking me to sleep and for reading me bedtime stories from the Bible. For tending to all my cuts, bruises, abrasions and for kissing my boo-boos. For sitting up with me all those nights when I was sick.
For helping me pick up the whole peck of blueberries I spilled when running to proudly show you that I had picked them. For swooning over the flowers I gave you even though I picked them from your flower beds.
For chasing down the school bus when I left my Dick and Jane reader on it. For insisting that I work during the summers to earn my own money to buy my own clothes. For wearing those outfits much longer than you should have in order that we could have more.
For teaching me to respect all life, human and animals. Thank you for teaching me manners, and respect for my elders and authority, and that work did not always have to be a burden. For all those birthday parties.
For holding my hand when I broke my arm and foot and got stitches. For staying with me all those days and nights in the hospital. For smoothing down the edges of dad’s temper before he gave me what I deserved. For all those wonderful Christmases. For always encouraging me to study harder.
Thank you for all those prayers that kept me safe when I acted irresponsibly. For all that delicious fried chicken. For waking me up early to share the glory of the Star of Bethlehem on that special Christmas.
For letting us have all those pets regardless of all the trouble. For the trumpet and braces I know you and dad couldn’t afford. For the never-ending love in your eyes, comfort in your touch and encouragement in your voice.
For forgiving me when I didn’t deserve it. For agreeing with me that Michele was the one. For loving my dad. For living the love of Christ.
Thank you Mom for loving my children more than you love me.
A tribute to Ethelene Russ Barns.
God save this State and this Honorable Court. Court’s adjourned.
Making the decision to have a child is momentous. It is to decide forever to have your heart walking around outside your body.
IN MOTHER’S HEART
By: Cynthia Morgan Dickens
(my adopted daughter)
A child’s hands holding tiny toys--
The treasures of small girls and boys;
Those hands that will draw unique art
Are intertwined in Mother’s heart.
A doll or bat are in the hands
That grow too fast for Mother’s plans.
Though growth marks are high on the chart,
The baby hands are in Mom’s heart.
And still they sprout and grow and change.
Mom wonders why they act so strange;
And though they may be miles apart,
Those hands will stay in Mother’s heart.
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