Mother's Day

With tomorrow being Mother's Day, I didn't think I could let the day pass without making
mention of the occasion. At my bridal shower, the grandmother of one of my friends offered her congratulations and said, "You know, you come from a long line of elect ladies." That thought struck me as I thought about my wonderful mother, my sweet little grandmother, and on back for many generations that I either knew personally or had heard stories of from those who knew them. I realized how fortunate I was to have been born into a family of strong, good, women who loved the Lord. I'm so grateful for the legacy they have left me. A little closer to home, however, is my own mother. I've always loved my mom and we've always been close--kindred spirits, perhaps. She's such a good person, patient, creative, thoughtful, fun and loving. When I was younger I really thought I knew my mom and who she was and how she lived. And then I had Elise. Suddenly, as I began to take care of her, I realized how many quiet acts of love my mom performed for me and my siblings. If anything, that is her distinguishing characteristic. I would remember things she'd said, something she'd done, and suddenly, as a mother myself, I saw her through new eyes. I wished I could go back and be a little more grateful, a little more kind, a little more understanding. Unfortunately, that isn't how it works. :) All I can say is that, little bylittle, I am infinitely more grateful for the mother she was to me as I was growing up and the mother she is to me now. If I can even do half as well as she did, I feel sure I can be pleased with my efforts. I found this poem by Edgar Guest (who I love), called "It takes heap o' livin'". I thought of my mom when I read this, because more than anything, my mom helped create a home where we could do a heap o' livin' and a heap o' lovin'. Happy Mother's Day, Mama. I love you--and not just on mother's day! :)

It Takes a Heap o' Livin'

It takes a heap o' livin' in a house t' make it home,
A heap o' sun an' shadder, an' ye sometimes have t' roam
Afore ye really 'preciate the things ye lef' behind,
An' hunger fer 'em somehow, with 'em allus on yer mind.
It don't make any differunce how rich ye get t' be,
How much yer chairs an' tables cost, how great yer luxury;
It ain't home t' ye, though it be the palace of a king,
Until somehow yer soul is sort o' wrapped round everything.

Home ain't a place that gold can buy or get up in a minute;
Afore it's home there's got t' be a heap o' livin' in it;
Within the walls there's got t' be some babies born, and then
Right there ye've got t' bring 'em up t' women good, an' men;
And gradjerly, as time goes on, ye find ye wouldn't part
With anything they ever used -- they've grown into yer heart:
The old high chairs, the playthings, too, the little shoes they wore
Ye hoard; an' if ye could ye'd keep the thumb marks on the door.

Ye've got t' sing an' dance fer years, ye've got t' romp an' play,
An' learn t' love the things ye have by usin' 'em each day;
Even the roses 'round the porch must blossom year by year
Afore they 'come a part o' ye, suggestin' someone dear
Who used t' love 'em long ago, an' trained 'em jes' t' run
The way they do, so's they would get the early mornin' sun;
Ye've got t' love each brick an' stone from cellar up t' dome:
It takes a heap o' livin' in a house t' make it home.