p. 12 | A Mother's Image

Review and Herald Publishing Association · Takoma Park Station, Washington, D. C. · Sep 5, 1907

A Mother's Image

A NURSE

It had been a long vigil, but at last the reaper Death claimed the dear little mother. By her side stood her husband, who had been her companion through long years of adversity as well as prosperity, a son, noble and manly, and two daughters, so tender and sweet. As she stroked the gray hair, one of them whispered:—

“She never spoke a cross word to us; no, never. A smile always greeted us when returning from school, or duty, or pleasure; always so kind, so thoughtful, with words of cheer and comfort to brighten our pathway.”

No; her life had not been all sunshine. The clouds gathered about her many times, clouds so dark, but still her smile brightened the way. With plenty of money, four promising children, and a Christian home, it would be easy to be pleasant, easy to smile. But this did not always last, for death claimed one of their loved number. Still, with the remaining three, she was happy. But soon financial embarrassment overtook them. The son went away to establish a home of his own, and the two daughters, delicate and frail, found it necessary to seek employment, and this separated the devoted sisters, and took from the humble little home the last ray of light. She was growing old, her plans for a happy home with her children were blighted, and now her last child must be away from her. She was not strong, having been almost an invalid for years. How had she any need of her ever-ready smile? Ah, yes; for the weary, faithful helpers must be cheered. More than an outward show of love did that smile indicate; it was an evidence of life hid with Christ in God.

When she came to my care, her earthly journey was well-nigh finished. Weak and worn, she sought relief, not with sadness, but with a hopeful smile and soft, kind words. So when her life slowly ebbed away, her loved ones were comforted with thoughts of her kindness and love; and though taken from them, her works will follow her, and they could but say, as they knelt by her silent form: “Mother, we can not wish you back. You have nobly filled a mother’s place, and your love still comforts us. O we will miss you! but God’s ways are best.”

I turned away, but the beautiful, sad scene could but bring searching questions to me. O that every mother were such a mother! A record is being kept of your every act, not only in the books of heaven, but in the minds of your children; and some day these records will be searched, and the searching will bring either happiness or sorrow. Can you afford to have imprinted on the minds of your loved ones cross looks and unkind words? As I looked at the two devoted daughters, I could see but the impression of a sainted mother. Are you making such an impression on the hearts and minds of your children? Shall parents not begin to-day to live before their children lives filled with love? Then will they not be disappointed in the reflection.