Join Date: Jun 2004
Location: Ordinary American Citizen!
I used to say to Mother
When friends dropped in for tea,
"Oh, Mother, take your apron off,
And don't embarrass me."
But Mother simply smiled and said,
"I will when I get through--
But I have need of it just now;
There's work for me to do.
I argued and apologized,
And often I opined
That wearing aprons gave a hint
That one was not refined,
But Mother took the restless babe
Upon her aproned knee;
Quite undisturbed by what I said,
She rocked on cheerfully.
And when the older boys came in
A giggling, happy lot--
My Mother with the babe in arms,
Would stir the old iron pot
And from the kitchen she would bring
A dinner well prepared
By loving hands for healthy youths
Who seldom thought or cared.
And thus to labor and to serve
My Mother, always wore
A large white, crispy apron
In happy days of yore.
And when the evening meal was done,
I'd say, "Oh, Mother, do
Take off your apron," she'd reply,
"I will when I get through."
'Twas thus the happy years sped on,
Her children grew and wed;
And Mother nursed her grandchildren
In her own children's stead.
She always found the time to go
To soothe a neighbor's cough,
But never could she find the time
To take her apron off.
The corner of her apron served
To dry our childish tears
It was a screen of peek-a-boo
For more than fifty years.
It told each hungry stranger
Who came shivering to our door,
"My apron's on--I'm here to serve
Until life's day is o'er."
So faithfully she worked away--
She had so much to do--
And always of her apron said,
"I will when I get through."
And then one night with weary feet
She climbed the old home stair,
And with a conquering sigh she sat
Down on her bedroom chair.
And folding up her apron white,
As she was wont to do,
She handed it to me and sighed,
"Well, daughter, I am through."
And peacefully she entered into
Rest--so nobly earned
And as the lonely years passed on by
This lesson I have learned...
My Mother's apron symbol was
Of service for her King.
Now in my treasure chest it lies,
A lovely, precious thing.
Mother's Apron Strings
There are chains of iron unyielding,
Enduring under stress and strain,
There are ropes of steel-like texture
Bound together grain on grain.
But there's not a pull or binding
More secure though ages roll,
Though all manner of times testing
Tries in vain to take its toll.
Than the simple, frail it seemeth,
Yet in weakness, a strong thing,
For it holds a world upon it--
Mother's humble apron string.
Yes, they're simple, oh, so simple,
Tied into a knot with care;
But no common, mere onlooker
Sees the hearts all tied up there.
Through the days of early childhood,
When the Mother, young in tears,
Watched with love the tiny toddler,
Saw the falls, the hurts, the tears.
Wiped the tears upon her apron,
Placed the feet upon the floor,
And with a look of understanding,
Urged him try it out once more.
There were days when he was naughty,
Needed lessons hard to learn,
Mother heard of "child-psychology,"
But its methods she did spurn.
For she had her own convictions,
In correction she was gifted,
So, across her checkered apron,
She her naughty child lifted.
Then the days of childhood problems,
Troubled looks in questioning eyes,
Caused her turn for a moment
From half-ready crusts for pies.
Wipe her hands upon her apron
Draw the wee one to her side
And discuss the "urgent" problem
Till the child was satisfied.
Teenage followed early childhood;
Problems seemed to multiply,
Teenage "words of wisdom" often
Brought the tear to Mother's eyes.
There were times of deep rebellion
When many unkind words were said,
Though at times he was unyielding,
It hurt when Mother turned her head.
And her hand reached for her apron,
Then he knew he wasn't fair,
Also he knew that in her silence,
It was tears that she wiped there.
Though he had the power to hurt her,
She would only pray the more;
And her love would never waver,
Though her heart was sad and sore.
Mother was much like her apron,
Uncomplaining, roughly used,
Giving silently in service,
Feeling not she was abused.
Only later do we know
All her love has had to bear,
And our own love swells within us.
"Bless her, Father," is our prayer.
"May she know that we love her,
All her prayers were not in vain.
May her guiding and instructing
Now bear fruit in golden grain."
Only now we fully realize
Each seed has been sown with prayer;
Each hard lesson had its purpose,
And it left impressions there.
And the things we thought important,
Are, perhaps, just little things.
And little things take on new meaning
Such as Mother's apron strings.
~> @ <~
Jesus loves me, this I know . . .