MOTHER-LOVE

Nelson Evening Mail, Volume LXXIII, 11 May 1939, Page 9

MOTHER-LOVE

IT THp Editori Sir. I believe in God the Father Almighty, Maker of heaven and : earth: and in Jesus Christ His only Son : our Lord. Who . . . suffered under Pon- ! tius Pilate, was crucified. . . | “From a sublime revelation of Divine j anguish, a fainting humanity has dcI rived infinite comfort and inspiration. | From the darkness and derelection of j the Cross, men still draw strength, I hope, and the courage to face life's most j exacting situations with a brave and ! confident smile.” I “Christ suffered for us. leaving us an | example, that we should follow in His j steps.”—“They met the tyrant’s bran- ] dished steel, the lion's gory mane; they | bowed their necks the death to feel: j who follows in their train?” That was ! what is known as the martyr age. But j where there is a great love there is alj ways martyrdom—suffering—crucifixI "God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son. . . ” “Mine is an unchanging love. Higher than the heights above. Deeper than the depths beneath. Free and faithful, strong as death" j The highest expression of human j love—the nearest approach to the Di- : vine—is mother love. “God.” says the ! Hebrew proverb, “could not be every- | where, so He made mothers.” “Hast th-ou sounded the depths of I yonder sea? I And counted the sands that under it I be?

Hast thou measured the height of heaven above? Then may’st thou mete out a mother’s

Many appealing illustrations have been given to show the extent of mother love, but there are few finer than this:—

There is a French legend which tells of an artisan who lived alone with his mother. He fell violently in love with a girl who was not worthy of him, for she had other lovers. Telling her of his love, he said he was willing to do anything in the world to prove it. Then, she said in a fit of wickedness, “bring me your mother’s heart.” The legend goes on that the young man, blind with his passion, turned homeward to carry out the dastardly deed, and early in the morning he hurried to bring his mother’s bleeding heart. In his haste he stumbled and fell, and from the heart came a voice: “My son, are you hurt?”

Mother ljve is the same everywhere, and in all ages. It knows neither race nor creed. Suffering, martyrdom, crucifixion. Not only in China, but also in Japan; not only in England, but also in Germany; not only in Abj r ssinia, but also in Italy.

In the Great War, 10,000,000 men—the flower of the nations —laid down their lives. Thousands and tens of thousands of mothers were left to mourn their loss. We have recently been listening to Anzac Day addresses. There are some men who still speak of the “glory” of war. What, after all, does it amount to, and what does it mean to the mothers of men? Just a moment of silence and let us try and grasp the real meaning of that “glory.” “The conqueror moves in a march. He stalks onward with ‘the pride, pomp, and circumstances of glorious war’— banners flying, shouts rending the air; guns thundering, and martial music pealing, to drown the shrieks of the wounded and the lamentations of the slain.”

“A soldier of the Legion lay dying in Algiers; there was lack of woman’s nursing, there was dearth of woman’s tears; but a comrade stood beside him, while his life-blood ebbed away, and bent, with pitying glances, to hear what he might say. The dying soldier faltered, as he took that comrade’s hand, and

he said. T never more shall see my own. my native land: take a message and a loken to some distant friends of mine. . . Tell my mother that her other sons sha’l comfort her old age’ . . . His voice grew faint and hoarser: his grasp was childish weak: his eyes put on a dying look: he sighed, and ceased to speak: his comrade bent to lift him. but the spark of life had fled: the soldier of the Legion <n a foreign land —was dead! • . . And the soft moon rose up slowly, and calmly she looked down on the red sfend of the battle-field, with bloody corpses strown.” The crucifixion of mother love! The glory of war! 10.000.000 sons paid the supreme sacrifice! “In Rama was there a voice heard, lamentation, and weeping, and great mourning, Rachel weeping for her children, and would not be comforted, because they are not.” “There are many languages spoken on the earth, and the traveller oft-times finds himself unable to understand the word that falls upon his ear: but there is one language that he finds the same in all zones, in all conditions —the language of grief.” "From a sublime revelation of Divine anguish, a fainting humanity has derived infinite comfort and inspiration. From the darkness and derelection of the Cross, men still draw strength, hope, and the courage to face life’s most exacting situations with a brave and com fident smile." "O joy, that seekest me through pain. I cannot close my heart to Thee; I trace the rainbow through the rain, And feel the promise is not vain, That morn shall tearless be.” “The eternal God is thy refuge, and underneath are the everlasting arms.” "As one whom his mother comforteth, so will I comfort you.”

“There is not one of us who. at some time or another, has not. felt that God has drawn near to him through Natui-e. The purity of a dawn, the glory of the sky at sunset, the morning carol of the birds, the murmur of the sea at night, the strength of the Hills, the freedom of the moorland, the majesty of the stars, the splendour of the storm —all these things, at some time or another, have made God seem near to us. There has been a hush of the spirit, which some of us fee] to be one of the chief signs of the Presence.

“Yet must it not be true to say that, if God can get near to us in inanimate things, He must be able to get much nearer to us through our fellows? If Lie can speak to me in the tones of the wind, canont He say much more to me ir the vibrant tones of my friend’s voice? If the sight of a flower can speak to me of tenderness —and I think that is His voice—then, as I look into the eyes of my friend, how much nearer can God come, how much more clearly can He speak? There is certainly a ‘silence that is in the starry sky,’ a ‘sleep that is among the lonely hills'; and these are His; His ways of hushing the spirit. Then how much more can the belief of my friend, his trust in me, his love for me, his peace-breathing friendship, become the channel through which God draws near to me! ‘Hush, I pray you! What if this friend happens to be— God?’ “Can you see this little picture? .... A darkened room in a hushed house wherein is scarce a voice that is quite steady? In one corner can you see an old white-haired woman sitting in a low choir, her face half hidden by her hand? Hor other hand is on the shoulder of a younger woman, little more than a girl, wko is sitting at her feet. There is a fire in the grate. It flickers up now and then, fitfully, as if half afraid of asserting itself too merrily in that house of sorrow. Yet, when it does, it lights up the white hair of the one, and the pale gold of the other. The younger had only been married three months, and then death stalked her young, brave husband through pneumonia, and brought him down at last. It was the day after the funeral. Suddenly the

younger woman turns almost ferociously on me, standing behind them both. ‘Where is God?’ she demands. ‘l’ve prayed to Him. I’ve asked Him to come and be near me in my sorrow. Where is He? Away somewhere in the sky, or something! Why doesn’t He come near me and make me know He “is” near. You preached once on “The Everlasting Arms.” Where are they?’ When the tears and storjn were over I felt the

1 only thing I could do was this. I drew my finger-tips lightly down the older woman’s arm. ‘They are here,’ I said. ‘They are round you even now. These are the arms of God. . . . ‘Where is He?’ yr say, ‘Why doesn’t He come near me?’ . . . ‘Hush, I pray you! What if this friend happens to be God?’ ” —I am, etc., N. R. NESTER, Umukuri, Bth May.