HONORING MOTHER | AdventAI

Pacific Press Publishing Company · Oakland, California · Mar 25, 1903

FromSigns of the Times, Vol. 29, No. 12.

HONORING MOTHER.

Boys, have you read the biographies of the men who have made their mark in the world,—risen to distinction among men? Do you not always read what good mothers they had? Very little is said about the fathers; mothers get the praise. Their mothers might have been the noblest of women, and yet never have been heard of had not those sons risen to “call them blessed.”

Whether they had, or not, exceptionally wise or good mothers, these men, by drawing the eyes of the world to their own achievements, have also shown the mothers behind them, colored by their sons’ characters. And the world goes down onto its knees and does homage to these dear old white-haired ladies whose sons have wrung honor and fame from its reluctant grasp.

But some of the tenderest and truest mothers in the world go down to their graves, their virtues unsung because of their sons’ dishonor. The world never knows of them; if it meets them, it turns aside. “Who is she?” “O, she can not be much—such a one is her son; and he’s anything but an honor to the community.” Dishonored because of her son’s dishonor!

And after these sweet and tender hearts break because of the ignominy heaped upon—not themselves! They have asked no praise, sought no recognition; but upon the head their poor lips have kissed when he was a little boy—the little white-souled boy, now a man, spotted with shame!

So you see, the verdict is always the same—like his mother. Be he good or bad, mother stands just behind him—mother “reaps as she sows.” This is the verdict of the world, whether just or unjust.

And mother—mother who believes in him, when all other faith has failed, who sees the little, white-souled child always, through all the mucky shroudings of guilt and shame; mother, who kneels and kisses his feet, no matter what mire clings to them; and who, no matter how low in vice and crime the hardened man may have sunken, sees only “her boy”—O, the loving, hoping mother who prayed for him; who always prays for him as she prays for no other, and who never will give up that there is no good in him—that he will yet show that she knew him best! Poor, yearning, clinging-hearted mother, how pitifully hard it is for her when the world scorns her because of her scorned son!

Boys, did you ever think of this? You have no friend in all the human world like this one north star love to which you may always turn, sure of finding it when it is sought. If your mother can say of you before the world, “I can trust my boy,” no heart in all the world will be so light, so joyous as hers. Tho she may be poor, and toiling, and careworn, no wealth would tempt her to exchange with the mother, who, having all other good, is yet so poor if she have cause to be ashamed of her son; the son who might have crowned her old age with the lilies of distinction, yet who buried her spotless name beneath the deadly nightshade of his own shame and dishonor.—The Commoner.