Which Shall It Be? by Harriet M. Morris

Seventh-day Adventist Missionary Society · Oakland, Cal. · Nov 29, 1883

Which Shall It Be?

By Harriet M. Morris

I AM sadly conscious that thousands of mothers are so over-burdened that the actual demands of life, from day to day, consume all their time and strength. But, 'of two evils choose the least;' and which would you call the least, an unpolished stove or an untaught boy? Dirty windows, or a child whose confidence you have failed to gain? Cobwebs in the corner, or a son over whose soul a crust has formed so strong that you despair of melting it with your hot tears and your fervent prayers?

I have seen a woman who was absolutely ignorant of her children's habit of thought, who never felt that she could spare a half hour to read or talk with them. I have seen this woman spend ten minutes in ironing a sheet—there were six in the washing—one hour in fluting the ruffles and arranging the puffs of her little girl's 'sweet white suit;' thirty minutes in polishing tins which were already bright and clean; forty minutes in frosting and decorating a cake for tea, because 'company' was expected.

When the mother, a good orthodox Christian, shall appear before the great white throne, to be judged for 'the deeds done in the body,' and to give in her report of the Master's treasures placed in her care, there will be questions and answers like these:—

'Where are the boys and girls I gave thee?' 'Lord, I was busied in keeping my house clean and in order, and my children wandered away!'

'Where wert thou while thy sons and thy daughters were learning lessons of dishonesty, malice, and impurity?'

'Lord, I was polishing furniture and ruffling dresses and making beautiful rugs!'

'What hast thou to show for thy life-work?' 'The tidiest house, Lord, and the best starching and ironing in all our neighborhood!'

Oh! these children! these children! The restless, eager boys and girls whom we love more than our own lives! Shall we devote our time and strength to that which perisheth, while the rich garden of our child's soul lies neglected, with foul weeds choking out all worthy and beautiful growths? Shall we exalt the incidents of life to the rank of a purpose, to the shutting out of that work whose results reach beyond the stars?

Fleeting, O mother! are the days of childhood; and speckless windows, snowy linen, the consciousness that everything about the house is faultlessly bright and clean, will be poor comfort in that day wherein we shall discover that our poor boy's feet have chosen the path that shall take him out of the way to all eternity.—Harriet M. Morris, in Woman's Journal.