Somebody’s Mother

 

Somebody’s mother

By–Mary Dow Brine

 

The woman was old and ragged and gray

And bent with the chill of the Winter’s day.

 

The street was wet with a recent snow

And the women’s feet were aged and slow.

 

She stood at the crossing and waited long

Alone, uncared for, amid the throng

 

Of human beings who passed her by

Nor heeded the glance of her anxious eye.

 

Down the street, with laughter and shout,

Glad in the freedom of “school let out,”

 

Came the boys like a flock of sheep,

Hailing the snow piled white and deep.

 

Past the woman so old and gray

Hastened the children on their way.

 

Nor offered a helping hand to her—

So meek, so timid, so afraid to stir

 

Lest the carriage wheels or the horses’ feet

Should crowd her down in the slippery street.

 

At last came one of the merry troop,

The gayest laddie of all the group;

 

He paused beside her and whispered low,

“I’ll help you cross, if you wish to go.”

 

Her aged hand on his strong young arm

She placed, and so, without hurt or harm,

 

He guided the trembling feet along,

Proud that his own were firm and strong.

 

Then back again to his friends he went

His young heart happy and well content.

 

“She’s somebody’s mother, boys, you know,

For she’s aged and poor and slow,

 

“And I hope some fellow will lend a hand

To help my mother, you understand.

 

“If ever she’s poor and old and gray

When her own dear boy is far away.”

 

And “somebody’s mother” bowed low her head

In her home that night, and the prayer she said

 

Was, “God be kind to the noble boy,

Who is somebody’s son, and pride and joy!”

 

 

 

Hope of Heaven

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Hope of Heaven

© Jeanne E Webster.  All rights reserved

 

Silent night . . . holy night . . .

The kingly head that was crowned with thorns

Once lay in a manger, sleeping,

Tenderly caressed by His mother, Mary.

 

O Come Emmanuel . . .

The hands that were cruelly nailed to the cross

Once healed thousands by His gentle touch,

Mercifully bestowed through His Father.

 

Amazing grace . . . how sweet the sound . . .

Those feet so harshly hammered to the wood

Once walked the sands of time for 33 years,

Presenting the hope of heaven

…to all mankind.

 

Just as I am . . . without one plea . . .

Oh Lamb of God, I come

I come!

white rose 

 

Mothering Memories

 

 

Girl Blowing on a Dandelion --- Image by © Royalty-Free/Corbis

© Jeanne E Webster. All Rights Reserved.

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Do you ever have memories that poke a hole in your sunny-day balloon, sucking joyful moments forth with heart retching thuds of regrets?    Yea, sure you do; everyone does.  A single dandelion in May can move torrents of tears from the bottle of hidden hurts.   Yes, a single flower.  You don’t call a dandelion a flower?  Ok, how about a blossom?  I say, anything that breaks winter’s bleakness is a blossom, a flower.  But oh, what a blossom this was!  It drew the attention of Annie like a hound to a hare.  She couldn’t leave it alone; she just had to pick it, take it home to her mama.  In her mind, her 5 year old mind, that dandelion was the prettiest thing she had ever seen.

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Poking up from the dingy freeze-dried grass in the old apple orchard, the buttery globe beckoned to the frolicking girl.  She scampered over to the lone flower and swiped it from its tall green stem, a smile wrinkling up her blushing, freckled face.  That was her final act–her short life had ended.

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She had lost her balance while turning towards the house and was swallowed up in one gulping burst of air rising from an old well left uncovered so many years ago.  Her slight willowy body was found two days later, her chubby fingers still clutching the dandelion.  Her mother knew at once what had transpired that day; her little Annie had found a flower for her.  If only she had gone with Annie to search out some treasures, if onlyif only.

.

Why did that dandelion pop into view from the entire realm of their surroundings?

Why hadn’t they been told about the uncovered well when they bought the place last winter?

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Memories haunt us as nothing else does all our live-long days.  How tightly woven are our days.  The hours, minutes and seconds, all fit together like a new suit.  We are gifted with a new cover each day.  The question is what to wear.  All too often we dwell on the suit that was cast off yesterday.   In all reality we can’t wear it; it doesn’t fit anymore.  It was made only for one day… then disappears into the foggy dew of yesterday.    We have changed.  Tomorrow is a new day, sporting a new suit, prepared for us by our Creator.

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“Learn to put on the mantle of love,

the cloak of joy,

the robe of peace,

the wrap of longsuffering,

the scarf of gentleness,

the stole of goodness,

the cape of faith,

the shroud of meekness

and the overcoat of self-control.”

Select your wardrobe carefully, that you might live in the Spirit and also walk in the Spirit.  Amen

Gal.  5:22-25

This is My Blood

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© 2009 Jeanne E Webster. All Rights Reserved and Observed.

 

 

Have you ever had “wondering” days

When you sit and reflect upon things?

Certain thoughts will linger and laze,

And before you know it, take wings.

.

I wondered about Mary today,

The mother of Christ Jesus, our Lord.

She tarried with intent to stay,

(Heart and soul of woeful accord),

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That day when they took Jesus, her son.

They mangled him then nailed him fast.

Judas betrayed this holy One

For silver that would never last.

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She tarried there on that blood-soaked hill,

Weeping… wanting so to hold her boy.

She knew his body they did kill

But never his spirit destroy.

.

His ravaged flesh taken from the tree;

Mary’s tears flowing with his blood.

She cradled him so lovingly

As the soil churned into red mud.

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His corpse, taken to a tomb quite near,

Was wrapped up in spices and herbs.

Mary trudged home with Sabbath tears,

Her heavy heart greatly disturbed.

.

Do you think underneath all that dirt,

Does that hill still preserve hallowed mud…

The evidence of Mary’s hurt—-

Her tears mingled with Jesus’ blood?

Mother, May I?

dollsskip

 

 

© Jeanne E Webster. All rights reserved and observed

They arrived shortly after breakfast, during the respite between chores and my second cup of coffee. What a pair! Bright eyes bejeweled each precious face; a whisper of animation radiated from each creased smile. Was this a true aura, emanating from the remnants of the prominent role they had played in their owner‘s life? I believe it was. They had returned among the living after a seven-year closet hiatus, bearing memories and blessings to share with everyone. That might not seem long to you, but it was forever to a grieving family.

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You see, after Mother had passed on to a finer, gentler locale, the two dolls had callously become shrouded in a shock-and-woe blanket. Over the ensuing years, an innocuous event ripped through the family fabric, tearing its fragile foundation to shreds.

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It all began when Father realized he was quite ill at ease living alone. His children could not provide what his lonely spirit craved: companionship. He ached for the closeness of another human heart, someone who could love him deeply with a caring spirit. This desire eventually found succor in the love of a delightful woman. Remarriage showered his world with peace and joy, slowly releasing grief’s icy grip on his heart.

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Family and friends visited often, except for his two daughters. The presence of a stepmother had driven a wedge between them. The daughters rumored about that the new mother was throwing out everything their mother had held dear. Withholding their affections and contact with Dad was their way of saying, “We do not like this woman living in our mother’s house and sharing your life.” They stood resolutely in this position…for four long years.

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The new mother tried to tiptoe around their feelings, disturbing none of their mother’s possessions that remained in the back bedroom, now looked upon as the inner sanctum. She had entered it early on in the marriage and redistributed an assortment of cookbooks that gathered dust in the closet. Some books stayed, some donated to the public library, all with Dad’s oversight and permission. Inevitably, the one cookbook that meant the whole world to the daughters turned up missing. This innocent deed completely severed the final scrap of a relationship left between Dad and daughters. The vagrant book was found later but the damage had been done.

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Three years later, the new mother felt a stir within her spirit to dispel the sacredness of the bedroom, hoping to bring the light of day back into it. Lying low in the dimness of past days, it had gathered dust, spiders and mites. Braving the certainty of creepy-crawlies skittering up her back, she opened the door . . . and entered. Nothing happened! The walls did not come crashing down, the ceiling remained intact, and the room actually beckoned to her, “Come on in, dear one.”

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Peering through the dim early morning light, new mother’s eyes rested on a doll cradle nestled on the floor near Mother’s vanity. “How precious,” she thought. Stepping closer for further inspection, she spied a life-like doll staring back at her. It was then “Oh my!” escaped from her lips as another cradle, embracing another doll, suddenly appeared in view.

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“I think these babies need to get some fresh air and see the light of day,” and with that, she bore them tenderly out of storage and into the living room. Settling them in strategic spots, she stood back and admired these priceless little babes.

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You see, dear reader, these were special dolls to Mother and, after her own children had left home, they helped ease her loneliness. She had chosen them from a doll shop, opting for hair and skin colors to match her girls. She’d glance over at them as she worked in the bedroom or passed by in the hallway, smiling at them as if they were real, for the time being. Somehow, I believe they too felt they were real.

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After their special reappearance in the household, things seemed to go better for Father and the new mother. Family members warmed up to Dad’s new wife and found out she wasn’t really a conniving old woman after all. Sure, she would never replace their mother, but they knew she brought joy and love back into their dad’s life.

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I wonder if the presence of these two little ones somehow triggered forgotten, happy memories within the heart of this family, enabling them to accept the change that had been brought upon them. I would like to think so.

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{Based on a true life situation}

Happy Mother’s Day, 2014

 

God Forsaken

Tree Trunk

 

 

© Jeanne E Webster. All rights reserved
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Have you ever had “wondering” days
When you sat and reflected upon things?
Unique perceptions linger and laze,
And before you know it, take wings.
.
I was wondering about Mary today,
The mother of Jesus, our Lord,
How she tarried with intent to stay,
Heart and spirit of woeful accord,
.
On that day when they took her son,
Laid him down and nailed him hard
To a rough-hewn tree. It was done;
Thirty pieces of silver the reward.
.
She waited atop that forsaken hill
Weeping, wanting to hold her boy.
She knew that his body they did kill
But his spirit they could not destroy.
.
His ravaged remains lifted off the tree;
Mary’s tears mingled with his blood.
Softly she cradled him ever so lovingly
As the soil turned into a rich red mud.
.
His corpse was taken to a sepulcher near
And wrapped with ointments and spices.
Mary trudged home spewing Sabbath tears,
Her heart crushed into a thousand slices.
.
I wondered today if underneath all the dirt,
That hill still preserves hallowed mud,
Evidence of Mary’s godforsaken hurt:
Her tears mingled with Jesus’ blood.

 

Dark Thinking

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Dark Thinking

©2014 Jeanne E Webster.  All rights reserved

 

“You’ll always be my little girl.”

 

What did that mean?

 

Memories still tumble down

That rocky hill of childhood;

Strange things . . . scary things

Deep dark and screamy things

 

. . . thought the little girl.

 

Rock, rock . . . thump and bump

Three kids sat all in a row;

The sofa became their “carni” ride

They rocked and rolled and screamed!

 

Back and forth with such hefty force

They drove holes into the wall.

Memories haunt the little girl

Even though she’s now grown old.

 

“You’ll always be my little girl.”?

There were no hugs or comforting words;

Those came from Gramma’s arms and heart

Not this mommy dear.

 

Can’t fathom those dark blurbs from the past

What did they all mean?

The thumps and rocking so hard?

All part of the ugly scene?

 

Just childish images of a bogeyman,

A phantom father’s brutalities?

Can’t open that door . . . and what’s more . . .

The little girl doesn’t want to!