“Her children arise up, and call her blessed…” – Prov. 31:28a
It’s been nearly twenty-four years ago since my mother went home to be with the Lord. I wasn’t there when she died. I was in Northern Ireland, serving God with my husband and our two younger children, Josh and Charity. On Mother’s Day, I don’t think about my own happy role as a mother; I think of her. I think of my children every day, but not my mother (or father, for that matter). But when I do, I never fail to call her, “Bless-ed,” and myself, “blessed.” And I miss her. Though we were apart for most of my married life, I still knew it was possible to see her. Now our next reunion will be in Heaven, and it’s getting closer every day.
Forty-four years ago, I was a young pastor’s wife in Florida, and when that particular Mother’s Day rolled around, as usual, I was missing her. And that year, I didn’t send a card. I wrote a poem to tell her how I felt. Many years after her death, I found the envelope with that poem inside. It’s postmarked May 10, 1969. The ink inside has begun to blur but the poem is intact. It’s not a literary gem, but it is the best efforts of a heart filled with love and sweet memories.
TO MY MOTHER
There’s a sweet and sunny lady,
That I know so very well;
And I think now how I love her,
More than I could ever tell
Oh, I loved her when she rocked me,
As she sang her lullaby,
Till my childish tears were dried.
Yes, I loved her as I older grew;
I realized her worth.
And observing other ones, could see
Mine was a noble birth.
But ‘twas not till recent years,
When voices called me, “Mommy,” too;
(Sweet voices—wanting, needing me)
No, not till then, ‘tis true
Could I ever know a tenth,
Of what my mother did for me;
Could I ever know the sacrifice,
A mother’s life can be.
But I’d rather be a mother
Than a queen in life, it’s true.
And I’d rather hear a little voice
Say, “Mommy, I love you!”
So, I wish that I could tell her now—
This lady faraway,
That I love her more than e’er before,
As I watch my children play.
I still miss her…I always will.