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No one But
a Mother
by
Virginia M. Kimball, S.T.D.
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No one but a mother knows the
joy and sorrow
that comes with life: joy --
when life blooms from
a moment of darkness, filling
with promise
in small brown eyes that stare
wide open,
only moments old in a cold,
bright world.
Sorrow births from separation,
parting from
the warm breast and its sweet
milk, parting
from the warm soft head snuggled
on her chest,
parted from the small ear print
on mother’s
arm when morning light streams
in the window.
No one but a mother gathers
memories, collectors
holding sons, treasuring
daughters, never
letting her go from her heart,
never letting
him leave completely to another;
miles are
shortened by the smiles, as she
remembers:
tantrums on the floor, kicking
with tears
for a toy – turned sour by the
tantrums
of missed curfew and the harsh
words of
hate that were never meant.
Sweet is the thought
of a daughter’s happiest day,
tears screaming
in the heart for lost days and
lost time together.
Proud is the thought of a son’s
commission,
standing tall and proud in a
uniform of blue,
tears screaming in the heart for
that small
warm hand that clutched for
safety and for you. |
No one but a mother sees the
days go by, one day
after another, and when did she
become a woman?
One day after another, and when
did he become a man?
Forever, they will snooze and
cuddle in her arms,
and the next day be there
preventing her fall.
Never is there time, for time
rolls on to time;
no one but a mother feels that
sting of years
when children go away, when
children find their way,
when children have their
children, as the time
wends its way. But always in the
heart of every mother,
there is care, and love, and
bearing. Always and for
every mother, time never ends,
and children’s lives
are hers. She gathers, she
protects, she worries
and she prays. Always. Always.
Always.
No one but a mother knows what
Mary felt, one
day after another. Her tiny
infant boy grew up, going on,
going on to hold the world. But
her Child must
be gathered, must be protected,
remembered,
suckling at her breast, cuddled
in her lap, rounded
to the Way, tears when they
runaway in whims,
because these children, these ones she loves – are Him!
Return to Mary Page
This page, maintained by The
Marian Library/International Marian Research Institute, Dayton, Ohio 45469-1390,
and created by Dr. Virginia M. Kimball was last modified Tuesday, 20-Mar-2007 by Michael P. Duricy.
Please send any comments to
Johann.Roten@udayton.edu.
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