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Pacific Press Publishing Association · Mountain View, California · Feb 25, 1913

FromSigns of the Times, Vol. 40, No. 8.

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Home Memories

By Mrs. L. D. Avery-Shuttle

By Mrs. L. D. Avery-Shuttle
He was an old man long past the threescore and ten mile-stone, but it would have done you good to look into his mild, gray eyes, clear and honest, and filled with a kindly light. His frame was sturdy and manly, and the passing years had scarcely left their mark upon it.
Something was said about “temperance.” At once the intelligent eyes brightened—“Temperance? Shall I tell you what it was that made that word the guiding star of my life?”
“Please tell me your story,” I begged.
“There’s nothing to tell, only that I should long ago have filled a drunkard’s grave,—for I was born with a natural craving for the poison,—had it not been for one thing.”
“I suppose that one thing was the fear of the outcome,” suggested some one.
“Perhaps it was just principle and a determination to lead a good clean life,” ventured another.
“No, no;” and a genial smile lighted up the old man’s face, “neither of these would have weighed an ounce against my natural desire for the cup. It was the sacred promise which I gave my mother; that held me.”
O, it doesn’t take very long to pass judgment on such a mother as that, does it? What a strong grip she must have had on her boy’s heart,—a grip so strong that the passing of threescore weary years could not weaken it. What tender memories must have clustered about such a mother,—memories that are worth more to any man or woman, or to any boy or girl than all the gold of Golconda,—memories of loving words and tender kisses and appreciation and smiles and gentleness, together with firmness for the right, strictest integrity, and sterling character!
O, these memories of the old home days! What character molders they are,—yes, and what character builders!
Then be careful, mother, be careful of that boy of yours. It does not take many years of carelessness and lack of sympathy and love on your part, to render his young heart as hard and unfeeling as a stone.
“Well,” you say, “I love my boy as well as any mother ever did, but I don’t believe in coddling my boys and girls. I see no use in manifesting my affection. As much as I do for them, I take it for granted that they know I love them.”
Ah! but what about the days to come? What about the memories of home and mother? O, I tell you, we take too much for granted. Johnnie gives up his vegetable garden, that sister Mary may use the available ground for her roses. Sister is really pleased to be thus accommodated, but she doesn’t say anything about it, because she takes it for granted, of course, that Johnnie understands, well enough, that she is thankful. But Johnnie goes off to school, wondering why his sister isn’t like other girls.
Emma gives up her birthday party, which she has so long anticipated, because she fears mother is unable to do the extra work. But mother takes it for granted that her self-sacrificing daughter understands that she is grateful. And so mother says nothing about it.
But in after-years, the daughter’s memory of her mother will lack just a little of the sweetness which naturally throws a sacred halo about the very name of “mother.”
Somehow, life—our every-day home life—does not seem to us as it used to, years ago. I wonder if we have not all noticed it. There is an intensity which seems to pervade everything, changes which seem vital to our peace and happiness are thrust upon us with startling suddenness, until the weary heart throbs anxiously, and the tired head almost reels, as we strive to accustom ourselves to each new emergency.
What is the meaning of it all? What is the reason that the enemy thrusts and presses his darkness and blackness in upon us, at every onward step? The wheels of life used to run smoothly and quietly enough,—almost no changes,—almost no disquiet. To-day the newspapers are filled with alarm and horror and dread and blood and crime.
O, I am glad, so glad that the memories of the other days are for the most part, calm and restful. And, O, sometimes our hearts yearn to go back to those old days once again,—to the sweet care-free days of childhood; to hear the music of voices long since hushed, and to see the loved faces and forms that used to make our childhood so happy.
Well, in all these longings—longings too often mingled with unavailing regret—our merciful Saviour sympathizes with us. There is never a cabin too humble for Him to enter, never a heart too stained and sinful for the blood of the Crucified to purify. “Him that cometh unto Me, I will in no wise cast out.” He has taken the contract to save us, and He will never fail nor be discouraged.
When we cry out with heart-sickness and homesickness, He who spent whole nights alone upon the mountains in prayer for us, knows the miseries of homesickness. Think you that His divine spirit felt not the human pangs of heart hunger and heart yearning? O, how dark and dim must this sin-cursed world have appeared to Him, before whom the angelic hosts delight to bow,—how dark, how dreary! What wonder that He groaned in bitterness of spirit: “My flesh and My heart crieth out for the living God.” “My soul thirsteth for Thee . . . in a dry and thirsty land, where no water is. To see Thy power and Thy glory, so as I have seen Thee in the sanctuary.”
What sacred memories of home; what yearning of soul; what consuming desire!
Let none of us forget that we are character builders for others as well as for ourselves. “None of us liveth to himself, and no man dieth to himself.” O, that we might build so wisely and well, that in after-days the memories which arise in the hearts of others concerning us, may be pure and sweet and holy!