First printing: March 2002

Copyright © 2002 by New Leaf Press, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations in articles and reviews. For information write: New Leaf Press, Inc., P.O. Box 726, Green Forest, AR 72638.

ISBN: 0-89221-523-2

Digital ISBN: 978-1-61458-296-0

Library of Congress Number: 2001098912

Printed in the United States of America

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A Special Note

This book is a gift of stories and also a special remembrance of what you've meant to your own. Stories are a connection, a bridge, for humans. All of us live and love. We have awareness. The relationships formed from our unique traits are always with us.

So enjoy these memories, and think of the ones you've made with your children. Read the note from them that follows, and know that you are loved very much.

They that love beyond the world

Cannot be separated. Death cannot kill

What never dies. Nor can spirits ever

Be divided that love and live in the

Same divine principle; the root and

Record of their friendship. Death is but

Crossing the world, as friends do the

Seas, they live in one another still.

— William Penn

Chapter One

Strong Enough to Cry

Elberton, Georgia, my hometown, was only an hour’s drive for my husband, Gene, and me, but today it felt like light years. My mother had died three weeks earlier. Gene and I had to take care of some final affairs at the bank where she’d worked for 38 years. As we drew near to Elberton, I felt an oppressive, almost physical sense of sadness creep over me. But I fought it off.

We drove into town and circled the neatly manicured town square filled with marigolds and zinnias blooming lusciously in the summer heat. Gene reached over and took my hand but I stared straight ahead like a store mannequin. He glanced at me. “Honey, is it too soon to do this?” he asked.

“Of course not,” I said. “I can handle it.” After all, my mother had lived a long and happy life. She was 92, had been in good health for most of her life and had devoted family and friends. My rational mind told me how fortunate she and I both had been, that death was a natural part of life. And so, being reasonable, I hadn’t cried at all — through her long illness and her eventual hospitalization, not even at her funeral or at the cemetery. It didn’t make sense for me to break down. Mother would have wanted me to hold up.

“Ready to go to the bank?” Gene asked.

“Well, sure, that’s what we came for.”

We were headed for the new, fancy bank building where my mother had been assistant vice president until she retired back in 1974. The original brick and granite bank still stood solidly on the north corner of the square. Now it was the headquarters of the town newspaper. That was the building I remembered from my childhood, the place where my mother worked. My father had died suddenly of strep throat in 1938 just before penicillin came into widespread use, so Mother became our sole support. She was 29 at the time, and I was almost two.

When she first started, the bank had all of three employees — a president, vice president, and Mother, who did everything from sweeping the floor to shining the spittoons. Back then, I didn’t think much about how Mother had to walk a mile and a half to work every day, then back again through the broiling summers and windy winters. Naturally, I assumed that all mothers economized by digging into their lipsticks with a bobby pin to get the last bit of color.

She was tall, slim, beautiful. I loved being seen with her. She wore her thick dark hair pulled back, which accentuated her Clara Bow mouth and set off her dimples. She wore elegant second-hand tailored clothes, sent to her by my aunt in New York who did part-time modeling, and White Shoulders perfume, just a dab so a bottle would last forever. Until I was old enough to go to school, while Mother was at work I stayed with a next-door neighbor. When I felt the urge, I would lift the receiver off the tall black phone so I could tell the operator, “Number seven, please.”

“Granite City Bank, Jewette Bond speaking,” my mother would answer. Those words thrilled me every time. “Hey, Mother,” I’d say. “Mannie!” she’d exclaim. “How’s my girl?”

Now, as Gene and I drove past the old bank building, I stared at the small ground-floor window that had looked into her office. After school, on the way to the drugstore for a cherry Coke, my friends and I would peek into the tiny window, shading our eyes from the sun’s glare, and scratch on the screen. My mother would look up from the keys of her Royal typewriter, hop up from her swivel chair and open the heavy glass front door to give me a hug. “How was your day, Mannie?”

Mother had Wednesday afternoons off, and it was my favorite time of the week. Most of all I remembered the sweltering summers, when there wasn’t a breeze to stir our kitchen curtains. Mother and I thumped on the watermelons being sold from the back of a farmer’s old truck until we found the perfect one. At home, Mother wore light blue shorts and went barefoot, just like me. She put a piece of newspaper on our kitchen table, heaved the melon on top, then cut into it. There was a satisfying splitting sound, and I stood on tiptoe to get the first glimpse of the rosy insides. We had picked a good one all right! We took the thick slices and sat on our back steps, sinking our faces into the juicy melon, laughing and spitting out seeds while the juice ran down our arms.

I could almost taste that long-ago sweetness as Gene and I drove through Elberton to the sleek new Granite City Bank — now called Regions Bank — a block farther down from the main square. As long as I could remember, Mother had had a safe deposit box in the bank, and it was one of the things she’d mentioned in the months before she died. “Remember the lockbox, Mannie,” she’d said. “I know, Mother,” I’d say, rubbing lotion into her frail hands, hands that had once been so strong, that had held me when I hurt, that typed for hours at the bank, that were always folded in prayer at the end of the day.

We parked, then Gene and I walked into the building. The air conditioning gave out an almost arctic chill, but we were greeted warmly by the employees, many of whom had known my mother. I took a deep breath and forced myself to smile. It would be so embarrassing to cry in front of them, I thought.

One of the cashiers showed us into the area where lockboxes covered the walls. She handed me a big manila envelope. “You can put everything in this,” she said. Gene helped me open the box.

I emptied its entire contents into the big envelope — a jumble of bank books, wrinkled papers, old coins, and a box rattling with jewelry. I felt my throat tightening. “Don’t you want to look at what’s there?” Gene asked. “Later,” I said.

When we got back in the car, I sagged with relief. Thank goodness I hadn’t broken down or gotten emotional. Gene started driving. I reached into the envelope and pulled out a letter on onionskin paper, yellowed with age, that I recognized as being typed on Mother’s old Royal. I unfolded the pages and looked at the date on the top. June 27, 1938. Just after my father died.

“My Precious Baby,” it began. I held my breath as I read down the page. “Mannie, you were a baby wanted very badly by both your daddy and mother.” As far as my mother was concerned “a better soul never lived” than my daddy.

She went on to tell how happy they had been together because they understood each other perfectly.

I read on, blinking rapidly. “Mother wishes for you a very happy life. I hope and pray a lot of good things will come your way. May God watch over you and keep you always. To me your being here is the dearest thing on earth. With all my love, Mother.”

I held the yellowed pages in my hand, overcome by emotion. This was a letter that my mother had meant me to read when she was gone.

“You hungry?” Gene asked. Without waiting for an answer, he pulled into the parking lot of a fast-food restaurant. Parked alongside the lot entrance was an old beat-up truck, its bed piled high with watermelons, just like the trucks when I was a child. “Gene! Watermelons! Let’s get a big one!”

Gene was concentrating on lunch. “Not now, honey,” he said. “It might split and make a mess.” He hopped out of the car and headed toward the restaurant. For a moment I sat there stunned. Maybe I’d just sit in the awful heat and slowly melt like a stick of butter. Lord, what is the matter with me?

“Marion?” It was Gene calling from the restaurant doorway, looking puzzled. Breathe, I told myself. Move. I stuffed the letter into the envelope, got out of the car as if in a trance, went in and sat at a table. Gene was ready to get in line and order. “What do you want, honey?”

“Nothing,” I murmured. Gene came back with his hamburger and fries. I sat desperately trying to reason with my emotions. Oh, Lord, what grown woman falls apart in the middle of McDonald’s? Help me keep it together! I tilted my head back to keep the tears in my eyes, fighting to regain composure. I lost the battle. As people around us kindly looked away, I crumpled. I buried my face in my hands and began to cry, hard, from a place deep inside, a place where my love for Mother was rooted. She must have experienced a similar wrenching grief when Daddy died. She had been strong. Yet my aunt Liz had told me how Mother had cried after Daddy’s funeral.

It seemed an eternity until I uncovered my face. Gene held out his handkerchief. “It’s okay, Marion,” he said. “Can I get you anything?”

“Yes,” I said, and told him. In an instant Gene was up and out the door. I watched from the window as he handed some money to the man at the watermelon truck, then opened our trunk so he could lift it in.

“Put it up front with me!” I cried, bolting from the table and running outside to get in the car.

I slipped off my sandals and propped my bare feet on the watermelon’s cool skin. I knew the pain and grief I’d felt pressing on my heart would never go away altogether. Why should they? The more you love, the more loss hurts. But as we drove past the old bank building for the last time, new feelings stirred inside me — peace, acceptance, understanding. Mother was gone, but God would help me endure. Still, I could cry when I needed a good thorough cleansing. Yes, love makes loss hard. But it also makes us strong — strong enough to cry.[1]

A heart in every thought renewed

And full of love divine,

Perfect and right and pure and good,

A copy, Lord, of thine.

— Charles Wesley

Cradle Song

Sleep, sleep, beauty bright,

Dreaming in the joys of night;

Sleep, sleep; in thy sleep

Little sorrows sit and weep.

Sweet babe, in thy face

Soft desires I can trace,

Secret joys and secret smiles,

Little pretty infant wiles.

As thy softest limbs I feel

Smiles as of the morning steal

O’er thy cheek, and o’er thy breast

Where thy little heart doth rest.

O the cunning wiles that creep

In thy little heart asleep!

When thy little heart doth wake,

Then the dreadful night shall break.

— William Blake

And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain: for the former things are passed away (Rev. 21:4).

Chapter Two

In the Valley of the Shadow

As someone once said, when we die, we slip the bonds of this earth and move out into eternity. Despite history’s proof to the contrary, we somehow think it will only happen to us when we are “old.” When we can look back on a life of children, memories, love.

It isn’t supposed to happen to the young and vibrant. They aren’t the ones who are supposed to slip any bonds. The young are supposed to live.

The following notes were written to a special mother. Her son-in-law was left severely brain-damaged after what everyone thought would be a “routine” brain biopsy. Instead, an energetic young husband and father shrank from sight. His descent has been maddening, angry, hopeless, poignant. Once an engineer with a quiet and humorous manner, he now sits and does little. His future is cruelly uncertain and sealed at the same time.

His mother-in-law has helped in limitless ways, and the notes here reflect the heart of a grateful daughter.

Mom,

I thought this card hit close to home!! It made me smile.

I just wanted you to know how much I appreciate all you do for me and my family. I know it is hard on you with all this junk going on and I’m sorry for that.

I honestly don’t know how I would make it through all this without you. You are my rock. You always seem to understand when no one else does and always know what to say (or not to say) at the right times. Thank you for going to New York with us, too. God obviously knew I would need such a Mom as you!

I love you with all my heart,

Lydia

As if to entwine the strands of generations, this blessed daughter looks now at her own young daughter, who is watching to see how Mom and Grandma handle “grownup troubles.”

Mom,

I wanted to thank you for everything you have done and are doing for little Meghan. Jeff and I appreciate you so much. Thanks for always being willing to come here or do whatever needs to be done. You are truly a great Mom. I can only hope that some day Meghan will think half as much of me as I do of you, Mom. I pray that my daughter and I can have as good a relationship as we do. I know it has been YOU making the sacrifices in our relationship more than me . . . if I do at all. I love you so much, Mom.

See you soon,

Lydia

There is no Job resolution to this story, yet. Years of broken dreams don’t lend themselves to tidy resolutions. Yet these brief lines illustrate for us that the mystery known as Mother and Daughter slip no bonds at all; rather, these bonds are cemented.

Our notion of sacrifice is the wringing out of us something we don’t want to give up, full of pain and agony and distress. The Bible idea of sacrifice is that I give as a love-gift the very best thing I have.

— Oswald Chambers, 1874–1917

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me (Ps. 23).

A Mother’s Hymn

Lord, who ordained for mankind

Benignant toils and tender cares!

We thank Thee for the ties that bind

The mother to the child she bears.

We thank Thee for the hopes that rise,

Within her heart, as, day by day,

The dawning soul, from those young eyes,

Look, with a clearer, steadier ray,

And grateful for the blessing given

With that dear infant on her knee,

She trains the eye to look to heaven,

The voice to lisp a prayer to Thee.

Such thanks the blessed Mary gave,

When, from her lap, the Holy Child,

Sent from on high to seek and save

The lost of earth, looked up and smiled.

All-Gracious! Grant, to those who bear

A mother’s charge, the strength and light

To lead the steps that own their care

In ways of Love, and Truth, and Right.

— William Cullen Bryant

Chapter Three

Alex, the Dancing Angel

It’s strange how grief can resurface after many years and teach us some of life’s most valuable lessons. That’s exactly what happened to me after 36 long, difficult years of not understanding.

Life was good growing up as a kid on a farm back in the 1950s. We were a typical family: mom, dad, and three sisters. We enjoyed all of the freedoms and pleasures farm life afforded. I, in particular, loved roaming the fields with my horse, visiting the sheep, and milking the goats every morning before school. I didn’t especially like feeding the 5,000 squawking hens and gathering the eggs, but I loved visiting with the customers who made their way to our circular dirt driveway to buy dozens of “Helen’s Fresh Eggs.”

One day, and I can’t pinpoint the exact day, the atmosphere in our home took a dramatic change. Being the oldest of the three girls, I guess I noticed the changes way before my other sisters did. Eventually, my mom and dad began to fight a lot, loudly yelling and cursing at each other. My mother scared us when she drank from jugs of homemade Italian wine until she could no longer walk straight. And, my sister Carmella, or Mellie as we called her, began to get sick a lot. She had trouble breathing and had to stay in the hospital more and more frequently.

Back then, doctors didn’t know how to treat asthma. At least, they didn’t know how to treat the kind of asthma my sister had. She had several attacks each day that would leave her wheezing and gasping for air. I had no idea how severely sick Mellie really was. I only knew that she stopped growing, and she was always struggling for air.

My mother drank more and more, and finally I think my father must have had enough. One day he just packed up a small bag of clothes and left. Life on the farm wasn’t much fun anymore. In fact, life was way different than it had once been just a few short months ago. Everything that had once been so carefree became a struggle. Fun turned into work, and living became serious business.

I can vividly remember the day the Campbell’s Soup truck slowly drove up our driveway to the farm and carted off the last of the chickens that were packed tightly into crates. The sheep and the goats were sold at market. I bitterly screamed as Robbie, my horse, was loaded into the trailer and driven away. My heart hurt more than I ever thought was possible.

My mom’s drinking increased, and in those days alcoholism was a “secret” that we three sisters vowed to keep to ourselves. When my mom would stay in bed sick from too much cheap wine, we found a way to escape all of the pain. We would find our favorite 45 RPMs and blast the music as we danced the night away in our living room.

Ruthie, my baby sister, was only six, so she mostly clapped and cheered as Mellie and I twisted and turned and laughed pretending we were dancing on American Bandstand with Dick Clark. Oh, my mom would get so mad! She’d stumble from the bedroom screaming at us to stop dancing. But, her yelling never worked. We’d dance until Mellie was so out of breath that we had to stop so she could begin to breathe again. We lived for those times to unwind!

My world crashed on June 5, 1965. Mellie died that evening in the Atlantic City Hospital when she finally lost the battle to breathe. Her young heart was very enlarged, and it was just too weak to continue to pump life into her anymore. She was tin y— looked about 7 years old — but she lived to be 13. She was my best friend in the entire world. God knows I loved her so much! She and I shared everything, and now, in an instant her breath was taken away, and so was mine. I felt like I had died, too.

The first thing I did after the funeral was to pack away the record player. Who wanted to dance now? My mom’s grief turned her into a full-scale alcoholic, and I became the substitute mom for six-year-old Ruthie. Never again did I listen to the songs “Sixteen Candles,” “Blueberry Hill,” or “Johnny Angel.” Grief struck my 16-year-old heart hard, and I cried millions of tears into the wee hours of the mornings. I never wanted to dance again!

Seven years ago, my daughter Alexandra, or Alex as we all call her, announced her dream to our family. Alex wants to become a professional ballet dancer. She is my 11th child, my gift from God. She’s petite with dark brown hair, and large, dark almond eyes. Alex can twist her little body like a pretzel as she performs all kinds of dance moves with growing skill and ability.

Recently, Alex has begun doing something a little different when she dances. She grabs my hand, pulls me onto the floor, and twists and spins me as we dance together. This little ten year old tosses her head back with such uninhibited joy, oblivious to anything else except the heart-warming passion she has of dancing with her mother.

When Alex’s small hand grips mine and she whirls across the floor with me, my heart races because I can feel it all over again as though it was yesterday. I close my eyes tight and I can feel the healing joy of dancing with Mellie.

Alex, my dancing angel, has brought the joy of two sisters’ hearts back to life again. After all these years, it feels like heaven to dance the night away! And now, after 36 years, I can finally understand. God didn’t take Mellie away. Instead, He gave me an angel called Alex to heal my broken heart!

Christians should

never fail to sense the

operation of angelic

glory. It forever eclipses

the world of demonic

powers, as the sun does

a candle’s light.

— Billy Graham, 1918–

In trouble we may find comfort,

though it be only that things

might have been worse.

— Amelia Edith Barr

They that sow in tears shall reap in joy (Ps. 126:5).

Chapter Four

The Notes and Sounds of Mother‘s Day

On Mother’s Day all over the country, grateful moms are pushed back into their pillows, the flower on their bird-of-paradise plant (which blooms every other year for 15 minutes) is snipped and put in a shot glass, and a strange assortment of food comes out of a kitchen destined to take the sight from a good eye. A mixer whirs, out of control, then stops abruptly as a voice cries, “I’m telling!” A dog barks and another voice says, “Get his paws out of there. Mom has to eat that!”

Minutes pass and finally, “Dad! Where’s the chili sauce?” Then, “Don’t you dare bleed on Mom’s breakfast!” The rest is a blur of banging doors, running water, rapid footsteps, and a high pitched, “YOU started the fire! YOU put it out!”

The breakfast is fairly standard: a water tumbler of juice, five pieces of black bacon that snap in half when you breathe on them, a mound of eggs that would feed a Marine division, and four pieces of cold toast. The kids line up by the bed to watch you eat and from time to time ask why you’re not drinking your Koolaid or touching the cantaloupe with black olives on top spelling “M-O-M.”

Later in the day, after you have decided it’s easier to move to a new house than clean the kitchen, you return to your bed where, if you’re wise, you’ll reflect on this day. For the first time, your children have given instead of received. They have offered up to you the sincerest form of flattery: trying to emulate what YOU do for THEM. And they have presented you with the greatest gift people can give: THEMSELVES. There will be other Mother’s Days and other gifts that will astound and amaze you. But not one of them will ever measure up to the sound of your children in the kitchen on Mother’s Day whispering, “Don’t you dare bleed on Mom’s breakfast!”[2]

While we are on the subject of mothers and Mother’s Day, let’s take it a bit further. Here is a small collection of notes which have been written to mother’s with great affection on their special day from their kids. Enjoy.

Dear Mother: I am going to make dinner for you for Mother’s Day. It’s going to be a surprise. Your daughter, Angie H., age 8 (Seattle) P.S. I hope you like pizza and popcorn.

Dear Mother: I got you a turtle for Mother’s Day. I hope you like the turtle I got you this year for Mother’s Day better than the snake I got you for Mother’s Day last year. Your son, Robert H., age 8 (Portland, Maine)

Dear Mother: I wish Mother’s Day wasn’t always on Sunday. It would be better if it was on Monday so we wouldn’t have to go to school. Love, Aileen W., age 9 (Baltimore)

Dear Mother: I hope you like the flowers I got you for Mother’s Day. I picked them myself when Mr. Smith wasn’t looking. Your daughter, Diane P., age 8 (Cincinnati)

Dear Mom: Arthur and I promise not to fight all day for Mother’s Day. Your son, Billy G., age 9 (Dallas)

Dear Mother: Here is a box of candy I bought you for Mother’s Day. It is very good candy because I already ate three of the pieces. Love, Marcy C., age 8 (Washington, DC)

Dear Mother: Here are two aspirins. Have a happy Mother’s Day. Love, Carole H., age 8 (Los Angeles)

Tony Compolo writes: Too many times women are made to feel that they should apologize for being mothers and housewives. In reality, such roles can be noble callings. When I was on the faculty of the University of Pennsylvania, there were gatherings from time to time to which faculty members brought their spouses. Inevitably, some woman lawyer or sociologist would confront my wife with the question, “And what is it that you do, my dear?”

My wife, who is one of the most brilliantly articulate individuals I know, had a great response: “I am socializing two Homo Sapiens in the dominant values of the Judeo-Christian tradition in order that they might be instruments for the transformation of the social order into the teleologically prescribed utopia inherent in the eschaton.” When she followed that with, “And what is it that you do?” the other person’s, “A lawyer,” just wasn’t that overpowering.[3] So, Mom, enjoy motherhood! Build great memories! Cherish those times with your kids because it won’t last forever. What you do will be life-changing for some little person or persons![4]

The earth, O Lord, is full of thy mercy; teach me thy statutes (Ps. 119:64).

Susannah Wesley’s

Rules for Raising Children:

1. Subdue self-will in a child and thus work together with God to save his soul.

2. Teach him to pray as soon as he can speak.

3. Give him nothing he cries for and only what is good for him if he asks for it politely.

4. To prevent lying, punish no fault which is freely confessed, but never allow a rebellious, sinful act to go unnoticed.

5. Commend and reward good behavior.

6. Strictly observe all promises you have made to your child.

Chapter Five

Oh, Susannah!

One of the great truths of the Bible is that we are all “just passing through.” This reference to our time on earth, on our way to heaven, is sometimes misunderstood and/or ridiculed.

Why do these Christians focus so much on some dreamy afterlife, goes the thinking. Why don’t they put some of their energy into helping people in this life!

Well, maybe that question isn’t so bad. Maybe it’s valid to some degree. Sometimes Christians can be so “heavenly minded, they’re no earthly good.” But what about those Christians who can exist in both realms?

Susannah Wesley was such a woman. We’re talking about an 18th century woman living eternal precepts.

When Susannah Annesley was born in 1669, she was just one of 25 siblings. Imagine! That was a brood of biblical proportions. Susannah would separate herself, so to speak, from the rest in that she became famous (albeit not intentionally).

Susannah would become the mother, you see, of John and Charles Wesley, two of the leading lights of the Great Awakening, a far-reaching revival that influenced thousands of English-speaking people. John, of course, is best known as a preacher of singular power, who defied the established church of his day and took the gospel message to the masses. Charles penned some of the great classic hymns of all time; both brothers displayed a sweet Christian spirit that drove the early Methodist movement.

It was the spirit of a praying mother that started it all, however.

The story goes that while raising her own large family (“only” 19 children!), Susannah spent much time in fervent prayer. In fact, when the children saw her with a cloth over her head, that meant quiet time; Mother was communing with her Creator. So steadfast was she in her prayer life that Susannah was able to overcome terrible difficulties in life. Twice, fire destroyed the home she had made with Samuel Wesley.

Samuel, an Anglican minister, was often away on his trips to reach souls for Christ. This pattern has been repeated by many godly men, and the crucial element needed for true success in the family is a devout mother. Susannah was this and more.

At a time when it wasn’t popular to educate girls and women, she insisted on doing just that. Her daughters were given the same privileges in this regard as the boys, so she made time to home school them for hours each day. She instinctively knew that education was not only a gateway to a better life, but a means to study the Bible more thoroughly. This became her consuming passion.

As a young woman, Susannah had seen the value in a well-rounded education for each person. Out of this grew her earnest and strong devotion for the Lord and His work; at an early age she determined to make her life count for Christ. Every day she prayed for the discernment to do God’s will. It was this tenacity in living the Christian faith that transformed John and Charles.

Modern Methodism owes its existence first not to John and Charles Wesley, but to their mother. The Bible teaches us that humans have had a bent for evil since the beginning, and certainly folks in 18th century England were no exception. Lawlessness was rampant, infectious diseases were a constant source for worry, and the gap between rich and poor was particularly acute. Through all of this, it was Susannah who virtually alone kept her family safe and on the straight-and-narrow.

A raging house fire in 1709 steeled the family to appreciate life all the more. Again, it was Susannah’s influence that kept the family together. In fact, young John referred to himself as “a young brand plucked from the fire.” His mother soothed his fears and nursed his injuries, and he never forgot this strength and compassion. He remarked later in life that it might be pointless for him to marry, because he could never find a woman as true as his own mother.

What a love letter from child to mother!

I am so made that worry and anxiety are sand in the machinery of life: faith is oil.

— E. Stanley Jones, 1884–1973

I thank thee, God, and like a child

Rejoice as for a Christmas gift,

That I am living — just alive —

Just for this human face I wear,

thank I can see the sun, the sea,

the hills and grass and leafy trees,

And walk beneath the host of stars

And watch the lovely moon above.

— Matthias Claudius, 1740–1815

She riseth also while it is yet night, and giveth meat to her household, and a portion to her maidens(Prov. 31:15).

Chapter Six

You Chose Me

Dear Mom,

I think that perhaps I know you more, and less, as I get older. We lived such a circle in our lives — from the moment you saw me, helpless as barely more than a newborn, to the moment when you gently drew your last breath as I stood watching helpless, but comforted, by your side.

Though it was not you that gave birth to me, you did give me life — a wonderful life where a small quiet girl with big brown eyes was cherished, spoiled rotten, and knew that every day she was loved — not only by you but by the family you had helped create for me. It is the family that cherishes me even now, and it was the best gift you could ever give to a child who knew that once a family did not want me. It is a terrible thing to know that, for a reason you will never understand, people have rejected you. However, that pain is forgotten when you know that someone desperately wanted you to be part of their life and chose to open their heart and shower you with love.

As a child, the paper that made me yours meant only that no one could ever take me away from the security of that love; as an adult, I look at the two birth certificates in a small metal box and wonder why you chose to be a mom again after you were already a grandmother and widow and new wife for the wonderful man who was first my grandfather, and then thanks to that little piece of paper, my dad. At a time when your life could have finally been all your own — you chose to be my mom.

There is so much to thank you for — so many reasons to love you — from honey and warm biscuits in the morning to chocolate pies on Sundays. You were so many people to me — a loving grandmother for a small child, a strong mother for a growing teen, a friend to a working adult, and a child to a loving caregiver.

I have never regretted for a moment the time we shared — and I can remember so many times my only prayer would be that you would never be taken away. As I watched you grow weaker and listened as your mind slowly began wandering to a past that became your world, I still could not bear the thought of you not being at the center of my life. Yet, even as you retreated to the past, you kept me with you — and though you have been gone almost three years, you are still with me.

God blessed us with each other and the family you brought me into. And when the time came for you to go home to be with your loving family in heaven, I did not feel left alone — because yours was a gift that even now continues to bless me. Thank you so very much for choosing me!

Love, Laura

Don’t expect wisdom to come into your life like great chunks of rock on a conveyor belt. It isn’t like that. It’s not splashy and bold . . . nor is it dispensed like a prescription across the counter. Wisdom comes privately from God as a by-product of right decisions, godly reactions, and the application of spiritual

principles to daily circumstances. Wisdom comes . . . not from trying to do great things to God . . . but more from being faithful to the small, obscure tasks few people ever see.

— Charles R. Swindoll, 1934–

Later I passed by, and when I looked at you...I gave you my solemn oath and entered into a covenant with you, declares the Sovereign Lord, and you became mine (Ezek. 16:8; NIV).

Chapter Seven

The Gift

December 19, 1999

Dear Steph,

Honey, I remember how much fun we had the day we went shopping in October for your special Christmas gift. Your big brown eyes looked so pretty as you saw the kiwi green Gameboy. I was sure praying that the store would have one! And, just think — we bought it on sale, too!

I wasn’t going to let you hold your gift that was supposed to be for Christmas, but now I’m really glad that I did. It made me so happy to peek at you and Alex stretched out on the floor talking about how much fun you were going to have on Christmas morning playing with your new gift.

Once we wrapped the gift, I was sure that you would “accidentally” tear the gift-wrap and begin peeking inside. I’ll bet you had a hard time not peeking in just to get a second look! Every morning when you would go into the Big Room to pick up your gift, I would almost give in and let you have it. Steph, I’m so sorry now that I didn’t give the gift to you then. I had no way of knowing what would happen.

I wish that Mommy could tell you what happened to your gift. Oh, I’m so sorry, Steph. I don’t know if we’ll ever find out. Maybe the workers that were in the house needed the gift for their kids more than you. They had little girls, too, and they knew what was inside of that box.

When you went to look for your gift and it wasn’t there, my heart started hurting. One day when you are all grown up and you have a little ten-year-old girl, you will know how much my heart hurt for you, Steph. Mommy is still feeling real bad. I promise you that I searched through the entire house, and it’s just not here, Stephanie. I’m so very sorry. I really am.

I know that moms are not supposed to snoop into kids’ things, but I wanted to read the Christmas story that you wrote for the school newspaper. I did something that I’ve never done before — I dug your rough copy out of the garbage can. Sweetie, I love you so much!

I saved your story because it meant so much to Mommy to know how big and grown up your heart is. I wish that my heart could be just like yours!

Steph, you know that I can’t get you another Gameboy for Christmas. But, after reading your Chrismas story, I think you understand what Christmas is all about. I know I understand all about gifts. God gave me the most special gift of all when He gave me you. Steph, Mommy loves you so much! You truly are my special gift!

Love, Mom

Following is the Christmas story that Stephanie wrote on the evening she found out that her only Christmas gift was taken from our home. The gift was never found.

I like Christmas very much. It’s a time for giving. Many people, especially children, think that the meaning of Christmas is getting presents. Some children have to learn the meaning of Christmas the hard way. I’ve had this happen to me many times. My gifts got lost, damaged, even stolen. I felt very unhappy, but deep down inside I thought of the true meaning of Christmas. Then I realized many children don’t even get gifts. After these thoughts, I don’t really care about getting — I only care about giving. Please show your appreciation and give to other people. You can do this by participating in the food drive this year. Merry Christmas to all! Stephanie Hinton, age 10

The Happy Ending

When Stephanie’s principal at school heard about the stolen gift, she found a replacement. That was a miracle in itself, since Gameboys were rare as rubies at that late date! Pulling her car alongside Stephanie’s mom in the school parking lot, she quietly handed the gift over, prompting tears of gratitude from a grateful mom. What a joyous Christmas it was!

The dew of compassion is a tear.

— Lord George Noel Gordon Byron, 1788–1824

And this shall be a sign unto you; Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger (Luke 2:12).

Chapter Eight

Sunshine Filled the Room

Dear Mom,

You taught me how to love. As a little girl, you made me feel special. That special feeling gave me self-confidence, balance, and courage to face life with a positive attitude.

You have the most caring, giving spirit of any person in my life. Giving is so prominent in your personality, you do not realize that you are selfless.

When you visit a friend you always carry a gift. Do you remember carrying 95-year-old, bed ridden Arlie Trammel a freshly baked-from-scratch pound cake? Do you recall how this sick, lonely, long-time friend welcomed your visit? The sunshine that filled the sick room as the two of you enjoyed eating cake together brightened her day.

I am so proud of you. Though Dad is walking the streets of gold, and your three children have homes of their own, at 82 years old you have developed a cake-baking ministry that fills your home with the sweet fragrance of freshly baked cakes and the hearts of the recipients of your delicious cakes with the sweet fragrance of Jesus.

The fact that you bake a perfect four-layered yellow cake from scratch, covered with an abundance of dark chocolate fudge icing, and a pound cake each day to give away is a blessing to many.

Even at the age of 82 — even when I’m trying to be an example to my own children — you are still teaching me the importance of compassion and giving of oneself for the benefit of another.

There is always a fresh cake baked if a neighbor has a death in the family. Your church home has come to expect a delicious cake from you at every eating function. I certainly look forward to serving your cake when I have a family dinner or any kind of party.

Your reputation, being the cake lady, has grown as you help friends and family celebrate.

What a legacy you are leaving. I remember when you took my six delightful grandchildren into your kitchen and taught them how to bake a perfect pound cake. The memory of the fun, laughter, and flour all over the children and the floor is frozen in my mind. The children will never forget sharing with their great-grandmother the warm pound cake they had baked.

I am blessed to have a gracious 82-year-old mom who spends her life spreading joy.

I love you,

Shirley

Prayer does not mean that I am to bring God down to my thoughts and my purposes, and bend his government according to my foolish, silly, and sometimes sinful notions. Prayer means that I am to be raised up into feeling, into union and design with him; that I am to enter into his counsel and carry out his purpose fully.

— Dwight Lyman Moody, 1837–1899

For thou art my rock and my fortress; therefore for thy name's sake lead me, and guide me (Ps. 31:3).

Chapter Nine

Turning Over a New Leaf

Perhaps it’s true that what hill people are to Chicago, collard greens are to caviar. In the Ozark hills of Arkansas, chickens roam free, cows amble down two-lane highways, and local news hits the barbershops before the papers know about it.

It was to this quaint environment that a successful Chicago businessman found himself drawn in the mid-1970s. Having founded one of the most successful Christian publishing companies in the industry, Cliff yearned to leave the sophistication, stress, and sensational pace of the city. Friends thought he was taking leave of his senses. Arkansas? Hillbillies? Sure, the small southern state had produced a couple of noteworthy U.S. senators, but it would never produce a president! It would never be big-time!

Cliff, though, was ahead of his time. He knew what he was doing. Relocating would prove his prescience. He had visited Arkansas a few times. Land was cheap. The central location would also cut shipping costs. Yes, Arkansas was about to gain a legitimate publishing enterprise.

In the spring of 1975, as the trees were wrapping themselves once again in green coats, Cliff launched New Leaf Press, an evangelical publishing house right smack-dab in the middle of poultry country. It wasn’t Michigan Avenue, but a careful driver could always steer clear of the cows. Cliff was right where he needed to be.

As the years passed, the company grew and became a respected member of the Christian Booksellers Association. Everyone knew Cliff; he was a fixture at trade shows, awards ceremonies, and strategy sessions. The glamour, however, left Cliff cold. He and his wife, Harriet, talked it over and made it official: Cliff was retiring. The lure of coffee shops and gardening were too much. What to do with New Leaf Press? This is where the story gets really interesting!

As often happens, the woman behind the man had an intuitive feel for the future. New Leaf Press was doing too many good things to close up shop now. If Cliff was immersed in planting seasons, who would steer the ship? The thought took hold of Harriet and sent her to her knees. After all, she spent much time there, praying for countless people and situations. It was here that she heard from the Lord: Cliff wasn’t the only man in the family. The couple’s only son, Tim, knew the business, having shipped books from the warehouse for years.

There was only one problem. Tim didn’t want it.

As Harriet continued to pray, she felt sure that Tim was going to assume the leadership of the company. What she didn’t yet know was why. It took a shattering event to help her find the answer to that question.

In April 1992, Cliff was full of ideas for the new lake house he and Harriet had dreamed of for so long. One Friday evening, he headed for bed early. Sometime early the next morning, he made the transition from this life to the next.

Devastated, naturally, the family went through the days that followed in a sort of collective daze. New Leaf Press couldn’t take a vacation; in fact, Tim had assumed the presidency only a few years before.

On a problem-solving drive in the car soon after Cliff’s death, Tim and Harriet were talking about all sorts of things. It was then that Harriet revealed to her son the dramatic-yet-unknown story she had kept to herself.

“Do you remember when you talked to your father and me over breakfast one morning about taking a new direction in life and the press was not part of it?” Harriet asked. Tim nodded, his mind on the road and the absence of his father’s advice.

“I prayed that night that you would take over New Leaf Press, and keep the ministry going.”

The impact began to sink in on Tim. As Tim thought back, he remembers making the statement to his father about not wanting to work at the press anymore, and his father even agreeing that might be best, but he does remember now the strange silence of his mother. For you see he went back to the press and in the coming weeks he seemed to pick up a burden for New Leaf Press.

His hands tightened on the wheel as he realized that the prayers of a mother had altered his destiny. They had also ensured that books proclaiming the gospel would be sent all over the world for decades to come.

His mother gave the following letter to Tim some years later:

To my dear son Tim,

I’m glad for the opportunity to write this letter. It seems most of us don’t take the time to say nice things to each other and yet a word of appreciation can mean so much in a person’s life, it could make their day.

I appreciate so much what you have done with New Leaf Press. I’m sure sometimes you feel no one realizes or cares about the burdens you bear and how hard you work. I am very proud of you, and your dad would be, too. So many times when children take over their parents’ business things go downhill instead of uphill.

I appreciate the fact that you are obviously doing God’s will for your life. I believe God plans our lives but we don’t have to follow His plans if we choose not to. You have chosen well.

“You saw me before I was born and scheduled each day of my life before I began to breathe. Every day was recorded in your book,” Psalm 139:13–18, Living Bible.

I thought of this event recently, perhaps it came to my mind because of Meghan being so sick. When you were little you got seriously ill with a virus. We took you to the doctor. He gave you a shot and said, “He will live or die in 24 hours.”

Some people we heard about were passing through our area at about the same time. Their child caught the same virus. Their child died!

Obviously God was preserving you for the work He wanted you to do and also preserving me from sorrow I would not have been able to bear.

I have written in my Bible the prophecy Claudia Norris gave you that day at the office in Harrison. Remember you were laying on the floor relaxing and the three of us were talking. It sounds like a very serious, religious moment doesn’t it? But it was! The date was May 21, 1978. You must have been 18. “Your work will be different from anyone else. I will lead you if you do not turn to the right or the left. Many people will come to you. Many will be here because of you.”

I am assuming God was saying that many people will be in heaven because of you. Do you think people will accept Jesus because of New Leaf Press books?

This Scripture goes along with that prophecy: “You need only to be strong and very courageous and obey God’s laws, for if you are careful to obey them you will be successful in everything you do, turn not from them to the right hand or the left,” Joshua 1:7.

I feel the Lord gave me a word for you also and I put it on your bell pull, Psalm 112.

Soon after Dad died I [wrote] these verses down with your name beside them, the date was April 25, 1992. They are Ephesians 5:15–18 and Phillipians 4:4–9. They are, I believe, absolutely words God wanted me to share with you. Please read them!

After Dad died I believe God also gave me this verse telling me about my son. “I will protect and bless him constantly and surround him with my love, he will be great because of me,” Psalm 89:24. I can see where this has already come true in some degree. (I think you are great already.) God has blessed you with a good, beautiful, and talented wife, and three gorgeous children. I think giving you a little girl was a special, added blessing from the Lord.

So, remember if you are great it is because of God . . . blessing and helping you.

I love you very, very much and I trust that you will continue to make wise choices and live within the circle of God’s blessing (Psalm 25:12–13).

I used to pray that God would give you wisdom and bless New Leaf Press but I forgot two things that are much, much more important.

Now I pray in this order:

That you will be a good husband

That you will be a good father

That you will be a good businessman.

What would be the point of a successful business if you don’t have a successful home? Raising your lovely little family is a high calling. Are you spending five minutes of your time reading Shibley’s devotional book with the boys? It seems like a big order. How can you possibly manage all three of these jobs? It seems impossible — not enough strength, not enough hours in the day — but nothing is impossible with God! If you really desire this He will give you ideas and I will pray!!!

Love, Mom

My Boy

Do you know that your soul is of my soul such part

That you seem to be fiber and core of my heart?

None other can pain me as you, dear, can do;

None other please me or praise me as you.

Remember, the world will be quick with its blame,

If shadow or stain ever darken your name.

“Like mother, like son” is a saying so true,

That the world will judge largely a mother by you.

Be yours, then, the task, if task it shall be,

To force a proud world to do homage to me.

Be sure it will say, when its verdict you’ve won;

“She reaped as she sowed. Lo! This is her son.”

Love, Mom

Whoever wrote this spoke what is in my heart.

* * * * *

I am so proud and pleased to have this story of my mother’s love and prayers on my behalf. By the way, the Chicago businessman was Cliff Dudley, my father. Because of the vision that he and my mother shared, the book you hold in your hand is a reality. New Leaf Press has distributed millions of books all over the world, to bring the lost to Christ through the printed page. The company’s greatest years would not have been possible without a praying mother. I am so inspired by my mother that I have shared the secret of my success with whoever will listen: the prayers of a mother.

I love you more than words can ever say, Mom.

Tim Dudley

President, New Leaf Press

It is the spiritually humble who know what peace is.

— Thomas A. Kempis, c. 1380–1471

Neglect not the gift that is in thee, which was given thee by prophecy, with the laying on of the hands of the presbytery (1 Tim. 4:14).

Chapter Ten

A Life of Joy

The following letters are written to a special mom and grandma who goes by the appropriate name of Joy. They are personal, full of affection and admiration. They are like the letters written to the thousands of moms and grandmas all over our great country, showing us the kind of bond of love that links us all together.

Joy is a busy woman on the go, and her life is fulfilled in countless ways. But she assures us that everything begins and ends with her family, the one that she and her husband consecrated to God at the very beginning of their marriage.

Mother as Greatest Preacher

Dr. G. Campbell Morgan had four sons. they all became ministers. At a family reuinion, a friend asked one of the sons, “Which Morgan is the greatest preacher?”

While the son looked at the father, he replied, “Mother!”

They that love beyond the world cannot be separated. Death cannot kill what never dies. Nor can spirits ever be divided that love and live in the same divine principle; the root and record of their friendship. Death is but crossing the world, as friends do the seas, they live in one another still.

— William Penn, 1644–1718

Mother Wish

There never was a baby boy

but what his mother prayed

That some day he would be a man

of only shame afraid;

A man that had the gift of smile,

the gift of wisdom, too;

A friendly and a gentle man

that only good would do.

There never was a baby boy

but when he went to sleep

His mother prayed that child of hers

the Lord would safely keep.

And day by day and year by year,

the while she watched him grow,

She did her best to teach the way

that she would have him go.

Oh, tangled is the skein of life,

with many broken threads,

And we are blunderers one and all,

with folly in our heads.

We’re in a world that’s torn with strife,

where sad mischances fall.

But every mother wants her boy

to rise above them all.

— Edgar A. Guest

Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you: not as the world giveth, give I unto you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid (John 14:27).

Chapter Eleven

The Influence of Mothers

Down through the years, it has been recorded that people who have gone on to serve the public good often did so because of the influence of their mothers. Presented below, for your enjoyment, is a collection of brief stories illustrating the timeless influence of mothers.

In His Thoughts

Richard Burdon, the famed British statesman, never made a move in his adult life without first consulting his mother.

Incredibly, from the time his father died in 1877 (when Richard was 21), he wrote to his mother every single day. This future War Secretary and Lord High Chancellor kept up this correspondence for a staggering 48 years, until his mother’s death at 100, in 1925.

Through wars and political skirmishes, Burdon maintained this heartfelt communication with the one person who understood him best. Only three years after his mother died, Burdon himself died.

A Bouquet Just in Time

Dr. Arnot Walker, when a student in the Jefferson Medical College, heard Dr. Clarence E. Macartney preach a sermon on the text, “Do thy diligence to come before winter” (2 Tim. 4:21). The text continued to linger in his thoughts as he sat in his room. He decided, I had better write a letter now to my mother. Perhaps the winter of death is near for her. He wrote to her and expressed gratitude for her exemplary Christian life.

Two days later while he sat in class, a telegram was given to him. It read, “Come at once. Your mother is critically ill.”

Hurriedly he went to the country home. His mother was still living. A smile of recognition and satisfaction was on her face. Under her pillow lay a treasured possession — the loving letter her son had written her after the Sunday service. It had cheered and comforted her as she entered “the valley of the shadow of death!”

The Bible Was Pawned

When 17-year-old W.P.L. Mackay left his humble Scottish home to attend college, his mother gave him a Bible in which she wrote his name, and a verse of Scripture.

College was only the beginning of the lifestyle which saddened his godly mother. At one point he sank so low he pawned the Bible to get money for whiskey. His mother prayed for him until she died.

Eventually, Mackay became a doctor in a city hospital. One day a dying patient asked for his “book.” After the man died, Mackay was curious to know what book could be so precious, so he searched the hospital room. He was surprised to find the very Bible he had pawned years before.

He went to his office and gazed again at the familiar writing, noticing many pages with underscored verses his mother had hoped he would read. After many hours in that office, Mackay knelt and prayed to God for mercy.

W.P.L. Mackay, the physician, later became a minister. The book he once treated so lightly became his most precious possession.

Once it was the blessing, now it is the Lord.

—Albert Benjamin Simpson, 1843–1919

Humility is perfect quietness of heart. It is to have no trouble. It is never to be fretted or irritated or sore or disappointed. It is to expect nothing, to wonder at nothing that is done to me. It is to be at rest when nobody praises me and when I am blamed or despised. It is to go in and shut the door and kneel to my Father in secret, and be at peace as in the deep sea of calmness when all around and above is trouble.

— Andrew Murray, 1828–1917

It is distrust of God to be troubled about what is to come; impatience against God to be troubled with what is present; and anger at God to be troubled for what is past.

— Simon Patrick, 1625–1707

Beloved, let us love one another: for love is of God; and every one that loveth is born of God, and knoweth God (1 John 4:8).

Chapter Twelve

Love Lifted Me

The following story follows a mother’s heart as she struggles to help her daughter. This is an exchange between Clara Hinton and her daughter, Michelle.

(Excerpt from personal journal)

January 1988

Michelle,

Where does a mom begin? How do I even begin to let you know what my heart feels right now? What can I say when only tears fall from my eyes? Never in a million years did I think that this would be a letter I would be writing to my beautiful 17-year-old daughter, my oldest child, my special girl.

For the first time in a long time I don’t know what to say. I don’t even know if I can get the words to come from my mouth. A baby? I never ever thought that it would happen this way, and yet it did. Dad and I have spent nights awake holding each other and crying, not understanding. We’ve wondered if we messed up somehow. We were mad — really mad at first when we found out that you were pregnant. We always pictured this news as the happiest news of our lives! Instead, we’re scared for you, and we’re all mixed up just like you are.

Michelle, we’re not going to lecture you. We’re not even going to come close to doing that. Instead, Dad and I just want you to understand one thing. We love you. WE LOVE YOU with all of our hearts! We will do anything to help you.

Things have been so tense in the house since we found out about the baby. Please talk to us. Let us hug you. Let us pray with you. Let us love you.

Love, Mom

The following letter was placed on my pillow a few days later.

January 1988

Dear Mom,

I just wanted to tell you that I am so sorry. I never wanted to hurt you or let you down, and I know that I have. I also wanted to thank you for being so understanding about this all. I don’t know how or why you’re doing it. And, please, don’t think that you had anything to do with me and my problems. You and Dad have been the best parents. You couldn’t have done anything to prevent this from happening. I am the one who messed things up.

I love you so much and I need you now more than ever. I’m asking you to please stay with me. I don’t deserve anything, but I hope you can forgive all of this someday. There’s so much I’d like to change in my life. I would have done things so different!

Please don’t shut me out. I need to know that you still love me through all of this. I feel so alone now. I’m scared and very confused. Please, try to understand.

Love, Michelle

May 13, 1991 (two years later)

Mother’s Day

Dear Mom,

You really are something! I don’t know of any other daughter who continues to get gifts and cards from her mother on Mother’s Day. You really didn’t have to do that. Jonathan is pretty good now on these special occasions. The cards he makes are adorable! But, although I was happy with my surprise from Jonathan, I have to admit I really like my card from you. The note cards and candle are beautiful, too.

So, thank you! You have been so good to me. Sometimes you make me feel guilty. I don’t do enough for you. Please let me occasionally have the fun of doing something nice for you.

I love you, Mom. Love, Michelle

Afterword

At the time of Michelle’s pregnancy, I was also pregnant. On May 13, 1988 (the week of Mother’s Day), at 11:00 a.m., I delivered the most beautiful little boy ever to be born into this world. He was stillborn.

On August 30, 1988, Michelle delivered the second most beautiful little boy ever to be born into this world. Jonathan was 7 weeks premature. He lived and is a happy, healthy teenager, the apple of his Gram’s eye. Michelle continues to be my beautiful daughter, my special girl.

It’s only when we choose to give praise for the rough spots in life that we will begin to see them from God’s perspective. If we don’t give thanks in all things, we are living in unbelief, for we are assuming that our circumstances are not controlled by a God who loves us! I’m not saying that you should give thanks for sin, but you can thank God for how He will use that sin to teach, to rebuke, or to challenge you.

— Erwin W. Lutzer, 1941–

Ruth replied, "Don't urge me to leave you or to turn back from you. Where you go I will go, and where you stay I will stay. Your people will be my people and your God my God (Ruth 1:16).

Chapter Thirteen

Midnight Phone Call

Jerking up to the ringing summons, I focused on the red, illuminated numbers of my clock. Midnight. Panicky thoughts filled my sleep-dazed mind as I grabbed the receiver. "Hello?" My heart pounded, I gripped the phone tighter and eyed my husband, who was now turning to face my side of the bed.

"Mama?" The voice answered. I could hardly hear the whisper over the static. But my thoughts immediately went to my daughter. When the desperate sound of a young, crying voice became clear on the line, I grabbed for my husband and squeezed his wrist.

"Mama, I know it's late. But don't . . . don't say anything until I finish. And before you ask, yes I've been drinking. I nearly ran off the road a few miles back and. . . .” I drew in a sharp, shallow breath, released my husband and pressed my hand against my forehead. Sleep still fogged my mind, and I attempted to fight back the panic. Something wasn't right. "And I got so scared. All I could think of was how it would hurt you if a policeman came to your door and said I'd been killed. I want . . . to come home. I know running away was wrong. I know you've been worried sick. I should have called you days ago but I was afraid. Afraid. . . ."

Staying on the line, sobs of deep-felt emotion flowed from the receiver and poured into my heart. Immediately I pictured my daughter's face in my mind, and my fogged senses seemed to clear, "I think. . . ."

"No! Please let me finish! Please!" She pleaded, not so much in anger, but in desperation. I paused and tried to think what to say. Before I could go on, she continued. "I'm pregnant, Mama. I know I shouldn't be drinking now . . . especially now, but I'm scared, Mama. So scared!"

The voice broke again, and I bit into my lip, feeling my own eyes fill with moisture. I looked up at my husband, who sat silently mouthing, "Who is it?"

I shook my head and when I didn't answer, he jumped up and left the room, returning seconds later with a portable phone held to his ear. She must have heard the click in the line because she asked, "Are you still there? Please don't hang up on me! I need you. I feel so alone."

I clutched the phone and stared at my husband, seeking guidance. "I'm here, I wouldn't hang up, " I said.

"I should have told you, Mama. I know I should have told you. But, when we talk, you just keep telling me what I should do. You read all those pamphlets on how to talk about sex and all, but all you do is talk. You don't listen to me. You never let me tell you how I feel. It is as if my feelings aren't important. Because you're my mother you think you have all the answers. But sometimes I don't need answers. I just want someone to listen."

I swallowed the lump in my throat and stared at the how-to-talk-to-your-kids pamphlets scattered on my nightstand. "I'm listening," I whispered.

"You know, back there on the road after I got the car under control, I started thinking about the baby and taking care of it. Then I saw this phone booth and it was as if I could hear you preaching to me about how people shouldn't drink and drive. So I called a taxi. I want to come home."

"That's good honey," I said, relief filling my chest. My husband came closer, sat down beside me and laced his fingers through mine.

"But you know, I think I can drive now."

"No!" I snapped. My muscles stiffened and I tightened the clasp on my husband's hand. "Please, wait for the taxi. Don't hang up on me until the taxi gets there."

"I just want to come home, Mama."

"I know. But do this for your mama. Wait for the taxi, please." Learning to listen, I listened to the silence. When I didn't hear her answer, I bit into my lip and closed my eyes. Somehow I had to stop her from driving.

"There's the taxi, now." Only when I heard someone in the background asking about a Yellow Cab did I feel my tension easing. "I'm coming home, Mama." There was a click, and the phone went silent.

Moving from the bed tears forming in my eyes, I walked out into the hall and went to stand in my 16-year-old daughter's room. My husband came from behind, wrapped his arms around me and rested his chin on the top of my head. I wiped the tears from my cheeks. "We have to learn to listen," I said to him.

He studied me for a second, then asked, "Do you think she'll ever know she dialed the wrong number?"

I looked at our sleeping daughter, then back at him. "Maybe it wasn't such a wrong number."

"Mom, Dad, what are you doing?" The muffled voice came from under the covers. I walked over to my daughter, who now sat up staring into the darkness. "We're practicing," I answered.

"Practicing what?" she mumbled and laid back on the mattress, but her eyes already closed in slumber.

"Listening," I whispered and brushed a hand over her cheek.

— Author unknown

Respect is what we owe;

love is what we give.

— Philip James Bailey, 1816–1902

For this child I prayed; and the Lord hath given me my petition which I asked of him (1 Sam. 1:27).

Chapter Fourteen

A Mother Is Never Far Away

The Will of Henry Heinz

When the will of Henry J. Heinz, wealthy distributor of the famous “57 Varieties” line, was read, it was found to contain the following confession:

Looking forward to the time when my earthly career will end, I desire to set forth at the very beginning of this will, as the most important item in it, a confession of my faith in Jesus Christ as my Saviour. I also desire to bear witness to the fact that throughout my life in which there were unusual joys and sorrows, I have been wonderfully sustained by my faith in God through Jesus Christ. This legacy was left me by my consecrated mother, a woman of strong faith, and to it I attribute any success I have attained.

— Evangelistic Illustration[5]

Mother Kept Him from Embezzlement

A distinguished public man of Indiana told how in his youth he was entrusted with $22,000 to take to Cincinnati by horseback. He rode for days, and then one day, “there was a moment, a supreme and critical one, when the voice of the tempter penetrated my ear. It was when I reached the crown of those imperial hills that overlook the Ohio River when approaching Lawrenceburg from the interior. What a gay spectacle it presented, flashing in the bright sunlight, covered with flatboats, and gay-painted steamers. I had but to sell my horse and go aboard one of these with my treasure, and I was absolutely beyond the reach of pursuit. The world was before me, and I was in possession of a fortune for those early days.

“I recall the fact that this thought was a tenant in my mind for a moment, and for a moment only. Bless God, it found no hospitable lodgement any longer. And what think you, were associate thoughts that came to my rescue? Away over rivers and mountains, a thousand miles distant, in a humble farmhouse, on a bench, an aged mother reading to her boy from the oracles of God.” At this point his voice choked, his emotions overcame him, and he said to his daughter, “We will finish this at another time,” laid his back on his chair, and died.

— J.H. Bomberger[6]

“You'll Be Great, My Boy”

As a boy, he worked long hours in a factory in Naples. He yearned to be a singer. When ten years old, he took his first lesson in voice. “You can’t sing. You haven’t any voice at all. Your voice sounds like the wind in the shutters,” said his teacher.

The boy’s mother, however, had visions of greatness for her son. She believed that he had a talent to sing. She was very poor. Putting her arms around him, she encouragingly said, “My boy, I am going to make every sacrifice to pay for your voice lessons.”

Her confidence in him and constant encouragement paid off! That boy became one of the world’s greatest singers — Enrico Caruso!

Lord

I crawled

across the barrenness

to you

with my empty cup

uncertain

in asking

any small drop

of refreshment.

If only

I had known you

better

I’d have come

running with a bucket.

— Nancy Spiegelberg

Heaven is not a resting place,

where men may sleep out an

eternity; there they rest not day

nor night, but their work is their

rest and continual recreation,

and toil and weariness have no

place there. They rest there in

God, who is the center of their

souls. Here they find the

completion or satisfaction of all

their desires, having the full

enjoyment of God and

uninterrupted communion

with Him.

— Thomas Boston, 1676–1732

And I saw another angel fly in the midst of heaven, having the everlasting gospel to preach unto them that dwell on the earth, and to every nation...(Rev. 14:6).

Chapter Fifteen

Seat of Honor

Miss Thompson was a conscientious teacher who tried to treat all her students the same. There was one little boy, though, who was difficult for even her to like. His name was Teddy Stallard. Teddy didn’t seem to be interested in school. He was not an attractive child, his schoolwork was horrendous and his attitude was not better. In short, there was certainly nothing loveable about Teddy Stallard. Indeed, for some strange reason, Miss Thompson felt a great deal of resentment toward Teddy. She almost enjoyed giving him F’s. There was something about him that rubbed her the wrong way.

Miss Thompson knew that his school records indicated that in the first grade he showed some promise but he had problems at home. In the second grade his mother fell seriously ill and Teddy started falling behind. In the third grade, his mother died. He was tabbed as a slow learner. In the fourth grade, his teacher noted that his father had no interest in Teddy’s progress. Miss Thompson knew Teddy’s situation, but still there was something about him that she resented.

Christmastime came and the boys and girls in Miss Thompson’s room brought her some gifts. To her surprise, among those gifts was a very crudely wrapped present from Teddy. Opening it, she discovered a gaudy rhinestone bracelet with half the stones missing and a bottle of cheap perfume. She put some of the perfume on her wrist. “Isn’t this bracelet beautiful?” she asked the children. “Doesn’t this perfume smell lovely?” Taking their cue from her, the children responded with appropriate “oohs” and “aahs.”

At the end of the school day, little Teddy came to Miss Thompson’s desk and said, “Miss Thompson, you smell like my mother . . . and her bracelet looks real pretty on you, too. I’m glad you like my presents.”

When Teddy left, Miss Thompson got down on her knees and asked God for forgiveness for her attitude toward Teddy. To make a long story short, from that day forward, Miss Thompson became a new teacher and Teddy Stallard became a new pupil. Both Teddy’s attitude and his grades dramatically improved.

Many years later, Miss Thompson received a letter from Teddy telling her that he would be graduating from high school second in his class. It was signed, “Love, Teddy Stallard.” Four years later, she received another letter telling her that he was graduating from college first in his class. Four years later there was another letter to inform her that he was now Theodore Stallard, M.D. Also, he was getting married. His father was dead now, too. Would Miss Thompson be willing to sit where his mother would sit for the wedding if she were alive? “You are all the family I have left now,” wrote Teddy. Miss Thompson sat proudly where Teddy’s mother would have been seated for that wedding. That moment of sensitivity and compassion many years before had earned her that right.[7]

A teacher gave her class of second graders a lesson on the magnet and what it does. The next day in a written test, she included this question: “My full name has six letters. The first one is M. I pick up things. What am I?” When the test papers were turned in, the teacher was astonished to find that almost 50 percent of the students answered the question with the word “Mother.”

When my father and my mother foresake me, then the Lord will take me up (Ps. 27:10).

Chapter Sixteen

Lessons Learned

I’ve learned that no matter what happens, no matter how bad it seems today, life does go on, and it will be better tomorrow.

I’ve learned that you can tell a lot about a person by the way he/she handles three things: a rainy day, lost luggage, and tangled Christmas tree lights.

I’ve learned that, regardless of your relationship with your parents, you’ll miss them when they’re gone from your life.

I’ve learned that making a “living” is not the same thing as making a “life.”

I’ve learned that life sometimes gives you a second chance.

I’ve learned that you shouldn’t go through life with a catcher’s mitt on both hands. You need to be able to throw something back.

I’ve learned that if you pursue happiness, it will elude you. But if you focus on your family, your friends, the needs of others, your work, and doing the very best you can, happiness will find you.

I’ve learned that whenever I decide something with an open heart, I usually make the right decision.

I’ve learned that even when I have pains, I don’t have to be one.

I’ve learned that every day, you should reach out and touch someone. People love that human touch — holding hands, a warm hug, or just a friendly pat on the back.

I’ve learned that I still have a lot to learn.

If I Had My Life to Live Over

I would have burned the pink candle sculpted like a rose before it melted in storage.

I would have invited my friends over to dinner even if the carpet was stained and the sofa faded.

I would have taken the time to listen to my grandfather ramble about his youth.

I would have eaten the popcorn in the “good” living room and worried much less about the dirt when someone wanted to light a fire in the fireplace.

I would have sat on the lawn with my children and not worried about grass stains.

I would have cried and laughed less while watching television and more while watching life.

Instead of wishing away nine months of pregnancy, I’d have cherished every moment realizing that the wonderment growing inside me was the only chance in life to assist God in a miracle.

There would have been more “I love you’s” and more “I’m sorry’s,” but mostly, given another shot at life, I would seize every minute . . . look at it and really see it . . . live it . . . and never give it back.

Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud (1 Cor. 13:4).

Endnotes

1. “Strong Enough to Cry” by Marion Bond West. Reprinted with permission from Guideposts magazine (February 2002) Copyright © 2001 by Guideposts, Carmel, NY 10512.

2. Erma Bombeck, Motherhood: The Second Oldest Profession (New York, NY: McGraw-Hill, 1983).

3. Anthony Campolo, The Power Delusion (Wheaton, IL: Victor Books, 1983), p. 30–31.

4. Robert Strand, A Little Touch of Heaven for Women (Green Forest, AR: New Leaf Press, Inc., 1997).

5. Paul Lee Tan, Encyclopedia of 7,700 Illustrations: Signs of the Times (Garland, TX: Bible Communications, 1979).

6. Ibid.

7. Robert Strand, Love 101 (Green Forest, AR: New Leaf Press, 1993).

Table of Contents

Chapter One: Strong Enough to Cry

Chapter Two: In the Valley of the Shadow

Chapter Three: Alex, the Dancing Angel

Chapter Four: The Notes and Sounds of Mother's Day

Chapter Five: Oh, Susannah!

Chapter Six: You Chose Me

Chapter Seven: The Gift

Chapter Eight: Sunshine Filled the Room

Chapter Nine: Turning Over a New Leaf

Chapter Ten: A Life of Joy

Chapter Eleven: The Influence of Mothers

Chapter Twelve: Love Lifted Me

Chapter Thirteen: Midnight Phone Call

Chapter Fourteen: A Mother Is Never Far Away

Chapter Fifteen: Seat of Honor

Chapter Sixteen: Lessons Learned