Mothers by G. B. T.

Review and Herald Publishing Association · Takoma Park Station, Washington, D. C. · Jul 13, 1916

Mothers

By G. B. T.

Not so very long ago I heard a young man refer to the mother who gave him birth as the “old woman.” This and similar expressions are characteristic of this wicked, ungodly age. Such coarse reference to one’s mother sounds bad. It betokens a coarse, unrefined nature. The age of this young man’s mother, if nothing more, should entitle her to more kindly words and courteous consideration.

God blesses mothers. Speak kindly to them, young men, young women. Mother’s eye is getting dim, her hair is growing gray, her form is bending, her steps are toward the grave. Ere long there will be a vacant chair, and those hands which have loved to minister to your needs, will be folded across the pulseless bosom on which you nestled in helpless infancy. There will be no more good-night kisses, no loving glances, no gentle caresses. The undertaker will perform the last sad rites, and the dear mother who has watched over you and prayed that your feet might be kept in the path of purity and righteousness, will be gone forever. Then you will be bereft of your best and truest friend. No one can ever take her place. No human being will ever love you with such unfathomable love as did the one whose dust lies in yonder churchyard.

Others may forget and forsake you, but not mother. Sin may degrade you, till those who were once friends spurn you and shut the door in your face, but the feeble, trembling mother in yonder home, tottering on the brink of the grave, will welcome you and love you. She will rejoice and be proud if honor is bestowed upon you; she will cling to you in your dishonor.

A wayward daughter who had opposed the entreaties of a kind mother to return home, decided late one night, when cold, hungry, and homeless, to return to the parental roof. Reaching the humble home, she found the door unlocked, and cautiously stepped in. There sat her aged mother by the dying embers on the hearth. “Mother,” she exclaimed, “why are you sitting here with the door unlocked so late at night?” Her mother replied, “My daughter, that door has never been fastened since you left. I was afraid you might return and, finding it locked, go away again.” That’s mother.

Napoleon is reported to have said, “The greatest need of France is mothers.” The fireside of the home is an empire of its own. Here the godly mother sits an uncrowned but unrivaled queen. Let no coarse words be spoken of her, but let “her children arise up, and call her blessed.” Home and mother is a vision that never fades from the mind.

In this age when disobedience to parents is a marked characteristic of the days upon which we have fallen, and is a sign of an ungodly age, the love and reverence for parents seen in Christian homes should be a sign of conversion, deep piety, and godliness.

“A mother’s love, how sweet the name! What is a mother’s love? A noble, pure, and tender flame, Enkindled from above. To bless a heart of earthly mold; The warmest love that can grow cold, This is a mother’s love.”

G. B. T.