A Mother's Discipline by L. P.

Pacific Seventh-day Adventist Publishing Association · Oakland, California · Jan 23, 1879

A Mother's Discipline.

By L. P.

ONE evening in March, at a late hour, I sat sorting, cutting and sewing, a pile of unsightly carpet-rags. This was the last of many burdensome and tedious jobs I had stinted myself to finish during the winter, and here March was at hand, and this distasteful work just fairly commenced. I was weary in body, and worn in spirit, with my early and late toiling, but I resolved that spring should not far advance till my work—at least the heaviest part of it—was off my hands, according to my plans.

The next day, however, my rags were banished to an out-of-the-way place in a promiscuous heap, for Maddie, the older of my two little girls, was quite sick, and lay moaning in the arm-chair. My hired help just then got sick, too, and had returned to her home, and I was left alone to attend to my child, whose malady grew more serious hourly, and with a large washing on my hands which had been put to soak over night.

None, save those who have passed through the ordeal, may know the heart-sinking, the weariness and dreariness of the days and nights that followed, as our little one grew steadily worse, until we thought she was going from us forever. Much sickness prevailing at that season in the community, my good, kind husband, unable to procure other help, took upon himself my care and work, that I might devote myself entirely to Maddie. Thus baby Amy was decoyed from the sick-room, where her prattle could not be endured, to see "papa" peel potatoes, set table, and prepare coffee.

But fainter and fainter grew my heart, as day and night our darling sufferer lay battling with the fierce disease, until her body could nowhere bear the softest handling without a cry of pain. I tried to pray, but I only repined. I could not even weep, though my heart seemed crushing beneath the stroke of her anguish. I thought since life was so fraught with sorrow and agony, I could not be thankful for my own, or for my children's.

The disease had reached its climax now, and though I lay by her side trying to soothe her with pet names and endearing words, she heeded it not, for she was delirious, and called pitifully to me: "Mamma, Amy is out in the snow, I must go after her." "Mamma, I can't tie her shoe." "Amy has my dishes." "O mamma, take them away, she will break them!" "See, ma, the horses will kick her." "Do, mamma, give me my doll, Amy is spoiling her."

During these ravings she would frequently attempt to rise, and then fall back with a moan. Then I remembered, in the heat and hurry of my work, the many burdens I had unconsciously placed upon my little six-year-old Maddie. This was present with her now; and the little incidents, at the time so trifling to me, so grievous to her, came back to me with many self-upbraidings, and her words were stinging arrows to my accusing conscience.

Truly, how many times her playthings had been devoted to the little destructive fingers of her baby sister, that I might, without interruption, compass my self-imposed tasks, and gratify my ambition to accomplish just so much. How many steps she had taken to save time for me and amuse Amy. Had they not both played in a cold room while I was too busy to note the fact, till they returned to me with blue hands and watery eyes, and I knew they were chilled through and through? Had they not, time and again, been turned off with a cold, unsatisfying lunch, instead of a carefully prepared dinner for childhood's appreciative appetite, that I might gain more opportunity to exhaust my strength and patience over some tedious piece of tucking, ruffling or trimming to adorn their apparel, and make them still more attractive to the eye of pride?

All this, and much more, in that dark hour I saw as exceedingly wrong; and I saw myself, whom I had before thought a tender, loving mother, "weighed in the balance and found wanting." I was a negligent, undutiful mother, unmindful of my child's best interests; and now God, whom I had complained of as "encompassing himself with a dark cloud, that our prayers should not pass through," seemed speaking to me through these circumstances of my life, and saying to me: "If I spare her, will you do your duty now?" I promised heartily, "I will, I will." More painful to me than the loss of the dear one was the thought of my neglect.

Slowly she began to recover; and the first time she was lifted without that heart-wringing cry, my heart overflowed with joy, my eyes with tears. The first time she knelt with us around the family altar, and the first time she sat in her usual place at the table, the smiles broke on my lips, while tears ran down my face. Oh, we were not sparing of pet names then; and and Maddie learned at last how inexpressibly dear she was to us. I had time then to prepare dainty food for her returning appetite. Her toys were no longer subject to the imperious will of her baby sister. Indeed, in many things they seemed to change places; and we might have been in danger of overdoing, had not Amy seemed to realize the situation, and quite naturally fell into our habit of tender concern for "poor sister." I had time now with patience and gentleness to correct the naughty habits formed, to teach Maddie not only a form of prayer, but its meaning. I thought I was the happiest woman in the world when she assumed her usual plays, and the music of her childish glee was unchecked, for it did not jar on disordered nerves or a discordant spirit.

One time early in her sickness she seemed depressed, and I said; "O darling, mother would let you run and play all you wished if you were only well."

She seemed thoughtful, but very sober, and finally said, while every word was to me a wound long in healing: "I am afraid ma, you will tell a lie."

"What!" said I, "ma tell a lie! Did my little girl ever know her ma to lie?"

She shook her head, but seemed unable to think I could allow her to run and play as she had often attempted to, noisily.

I was careful to see that my promise was fulfilled to the letter. But, oh, how many times during her sickness I feared I should never have cause to restrain those little feet, busy hands, and that prattling tongue more.

Now, for the sake of my family's comfort and welfare, I live and labor; but not as before. While I have time for every duty, I have none for needless ornament, or unseasonable work at midnight hours or before the dawn of day. If friends come in and find me cutting paper cats, or helping dress the children's dolls, when buttons come off, and strings fail and knot, I am serene, though my morning's work is not yet all done. They are serene and happy, too. Why should they not be so, where loving, cheerful sacrifice is the order of the day, instead of driving care?—L. P. in Arthur's Home Magazine.