The Mother and the Home
As one whom his mother comforteth, so will I comfort you; and ye shall be comforted in Jerusalem.—Isaiah 66:13.
THIS is Mothers’ Day. Each of us will find his way into his own memory field to-day and, wandering in and out along the pathway of the past, he will gather forget-me-nots and heartsease for a bouquet. “What an armful of flowers, with nectar sweet as that in the cups of rose-buds and with fragrance outmatching Arabic gardens! You may go where you like along these roads of memory, into the orchard, or the meadow, or the woodland; but let me go straight to my mother, whose long absence makes the world a lonesome place for me after all these years. I want to hear her speak my name once more. I want to feel, once more, the touch of her caress.
Man’s first home was in the Garden of Eden; his last home is heaven. This shows what God would have the home to be. He Himself built the first and the last, but man has built all the others. Man has made many mistakes in his part in this age-old task; but, whether he built this shelter for love in a cave, a cabin or a cottage; whether it is built of logs or brick or chiseled stone—it is the best thing he has ever done, the best thing in spite of his failures, and the most important thing.
Is there anything in music to compare with the laughter of childhood, in the happy fellowship of the fireside? Is there anything in sculpture to match the hearthstone group? Does not the mother with the light of love in her eye and with a happy child at her knee outrival Raphael’s “Sistine Madonna”? Is there anywhere in fiction a love story like that written in the memory of home life? Is there any enactment of Congress or Parliament of as far-carrying influence as the law of love written in the hearts of parents and child? Is there any orchard like that in which child-life and the fruit of family affection grow? Is there any garden to match that garden of good will in which the flowers of love open and bloom? Is there any soil so fertile or so friendly to the seeds of virtue as that spot of earth which we call home? Man has made many mistakes in this holy business of home-building; but in spite of his mistakes he has never done anything else so worth while.
I think God never loved us more than when He planned the home. His mighty heart must have throbbed with sympathy and good will, and His love for the sons and daughters of men must have been aflame, when He thought out the home relationship and when He conceived this place for rest, for shelter, for happiness and for love.
It is to be noted, too, that He has so fixed it that home does not depend upon the size of the house, or the expensiveness of the furnishings, or the exclusiveness of social sanctions, or the fame of worldly success. Only a few, comparatively, can have these things; but the humblest may have a home. I am not saying that such things are not worth while. They are. I am not saying they are inimical to the home. They are not. I am saying that they are not necessary. Many a poor man goes to his home in the evening with a gladder heart than many a rich man. Get these things if you can—the beautiful rug, the costly instrument of music, the dainty porcelain, the exquisite vase, the canvas of the masters, the cozy corner; get them all if you can; but these are not the most important things.
Manhood has more to do with the home than money; womanhood, than wardrobes; character, than coupons; patience, than pictures; amiability, than architecture; virtue, than vases; and love, than lands and lawns. Let the house be furnished first of all with light, laughter and love; with patience, purity and peace; with honor, health and happiness; with faith, fealty and freedom; with reason, righteousness and religion, and then, as if by the divine alchemy, the house has become a home.
The mother is the soul of the home. This is the language of sentiment, but it is nobly true. The foundations of the home may be of wood, brick or stone; the floor may be inlaid hardwood, or pine or slab or beaten sod; the roof may be shingles, slate or clapboards; the illumination may be tallow candles, coal-oil lamp, gas jet or electric bulb; however or of whatever sort these material things may be, the home is inanimate without her. Without her it has no breath of life. She is its heart-beat, she is its atmosphere. Her heart pumps its life current. She is its pulse. She is its life. She is its light. She tends its altar and keeps the altar fires alive. Without her the home is pulseless, inarticulate, empty, dead. Without her, home is not home.
I wonder if I might be bold enough to speak of dead homes. There are many such. God have pity! There is the chill of death in their chambers, for the fires of love have gone out. The darkness of the grave broods over them, for the light of love is in eclipse. They are voiceless as the tomb, for love has been stricken dumb. Their grave-clothes have been woven in the loom of ill temper, or in the loom of selfishness, or in the loom of wastefulness, or in the loom of unfaithfulness. No one can bring these dead homes back to life but the Lord of life, who has power over death and the grave. But as long as the mother’s love lives, the home will live. She is the breath of its life. She is its fragrance. She is its glory, its soul.
God needed help to show His love and so He gave us mothers. “What an hour that was in the councils of heaven when the thought of mother was conceived first in the heart of God; when the plan was wrought out to nourish the seed of life in her flesh, to warm it into life by the warmth of her blood, to graft the new life into her life, to make her soul its shelter and her heart its cradle lined with the eiderdown of love, to turn her touch into a caress and her smile into sunshine and her voice into a lullaby and her affection into a fortress. The mother, I think, is the final proof of God.
How beautiful motherhood is! The baby is in her arms. He lies on her bosom. His chubby fingers play in her hair. His cheek is against her cheek. His arms are around her neck. His little feet trample her lap. His breath fans the fires of her love into a glow that shows in color in her cheeks. Long before he can talk, his dimples, like tiny mouths, speak of his love of her. The mother and her child! What a picture! No wonder sculptors have chiseled this scene in marble, painters have portrayed it on canvas, poets have put it into songs and public speakers have pictured it in words. There are many beautiful things in the world — an orchard in bloom, sunshine on the hills, a valley of wild flowers, a field of ripened grain, a wildwood in the springtime, a setting sun and its trailing glory; but there is nothing this side of heaven to match the beauty of the mother with her babe in her arms.
How wonderful motherhood is! How may we account for its strength, with no such physical organization as that of the man; and yet unmatched in strength for vigils, for carrying love’s load, for patient endurance, for unweary waiting, for answering uncounted calls, for ministries that strain the soul. Is there no limit to the mother’s sacrifice? Will her arms never tire? Will her dear fingers never grow weary? By what alchemy is her feminine weakness turned into unequaled strength? Love is the alchemist. Love lifts her load. Love links her to her task and multiplies her power. Love is the only possible explanation of motherhood. Love exalts, strengthens, beautifies, glorifies.
How divine motherhood is! I have seen a mother reach through prison bars to touch her boy’s hands, and while an agony like that of death gripped her heart, her eyes looked into his as they did in cradle days. Nothing could change her, however much he may have been changed. He was hers, the fruit of her womb, and in spite of the turnkey’s key she locked him in her heart. I have seen her wait in her humble home for her boy’s long-delayed return.
When everyone else had ceased to think of him, she had ceased to think of everyone else. I have seen her eyes fill with reminiscent tears as she thought of the empty cradle, and her empty arms, and her lonesome love. I have heard her sing her crooning cradle-song when the child, for whose soothing she had learned it, had long since been listening to the songs of angels.
What is it I am trying to do? Well, I am just trying to keep you from forgetting. Perhaps if I can make you remember these things, the fact of your remembering may mean something to your own mother. Possibly I may help you to smile at her oftener. I am thinking that she might be hungry to feel your arms around her neck, and that, if you are away from her, you might send her a message. Some of us, I among others, would have to send our messages by way of the throne of God. I want you to touch her cheeks as in childhood days. She has carried heavy loads for you. I do not want your neglect of her to be piled on top of her already heavy load.
“Nobody knows the work it takes
To keep the home together.
Nobody knows of the steps it takes.
Nobody knows but mother.
“Nobody listens to childish woe
Which kisses only smother.
Nobody’s pained by naughty blows,
Nobody, only mother.
“Nobody knows of the sleepless care
Bestowed on baby brother.
Nobody knows of the tender prayer,
Nobody, only mother.
“Nobody knows of the lessons taught
Of loving one another;
Nobody knows of the patience sought,
Nobody, only mother.
“Nobody knows of the anxious fears
Lest darlings may not weather
The storms of life in after years.
Nobody knows but mother.
“Nobody kneels at the throne above
To thank the heavenly Father
For the sweetest gift—a mother’s love.
Nobody can but mother.”
You will not expect the impossible of mother. She is only human. It is all right to have a high ideal of motherhood, but we must be slow to condemn if she does not always measure up to it. Her love will prompt her to be brave in the midst of her cares. Her load will never be light, but she will cry to God for strength to carry it. She will be strained, tested, tried, put to it by her many duties. Her nerves will be keyed up often until they are ready to snap. She will have many hindrances and many trials of temper, and there will be confusion, clamor and uncounted claims and noise. But she will try to remember that in the home too much noise is better than too great silence. She will remember that there comes to some homes a silence that sounds louder in the lonesome chambers of the soul than all the clamor of childish voices. She will know that it is better to have muddy shoes on the carpet than to have them cleaned and laid away. She will know that it is better to have finger prints on the windowpanes and mirrors than to have the fingers of a great sorrow clutching at her heart-strings.
“The little toy dog is covered with dust,
But sturdy and staunch he stands
And the little tin soldier is heavy with rust
And his musket molds in his hands.
“Time was when the little toy dog was new
And the soldier was passing fair;
But that was the time when our Little Boy Blue
Kissed them and put them there.
“‘Now, don’t go till I come, he said,
‘And don’t you make any noise,’
So, toddling off to his trundle-bed,
He dreamt of his pretty toys.
“And as he was dreaming, an angel’s song
Awakened our Little Boy Blue.
Ah! the years are many, the years are long,
But little toy friends are true.
“Aye, faithful to Little Boy Blue they stand.
Each in its same old place.
Awaiting the touch of a little hand
And the smile of a little face.
“And they wonder, as waiting the long years through
In the dust of that little chair.
What has become of our Little Boy Blue
Since he kissed them and put them there.”
So, with all her load of love, she will have sorrows and heartaches.
But what response can be made to the mother’s sacrifice? Can the younger children also help her to carry her load of love? Their young feet can run many an errand. Their swift hands can unravel many a tangle. Their new strength can lighten many a task. They can love and help carry her burden. They can laugh and lift, and their laughter will lighten the load. Their desire to help will help more than their effort to help. Their sympathy will lift like a block and tackle. Their goodwill will lift like a derrick. Their love will lift like a Corliss engine. It is not so much, after all, what can be done with the hands as what can be done with the heart, that helps.
Oh, son or daughter, whoever you are, wherever you are, thank God for your mother. The very name in my memory is filled to the brim with gifts from God. Its syllables on my tongue are heart-throbs. Its letters are leaping pulses. It’s the holiest name in human speech except the name of God, who pities like a father, who comforts like a mother and who loves like both.
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Carey E. Morgan was born in Johnson County, IN, August 21, 1860, and received his major education in Butler College, Indianapolis, IN. In Indiana he preached for the churches of Christ at Arcadia, Atlanta, and Wabash. In Minneapolis, MN, he was minister for six years, and then served the old historic Seventh Street Church at Richmond, VA, for five years. He preached in Paris, KY, from 1903-1912, and was in charge of the Vine Street Church in Nashville, TN. He occupied a lectureship chair in Vanderbilt University, Nashville, on the subject, “Pastoral Theology”