My Mother

My Mother

My mother is the beauty that caught my father’s eye.

The sweet and tender girl that fit the dreams he’d built so high.

My mother was my cradle through many a sleepless night.

The font of life.  But more, the well of warmth, and love’s sweet light.

My mother was the pillar that calmed my childhood fears,

Doctored stub toes, shared feverish nights, and kissed away the tears.

My mother taught me how to pray, to trust my Father’s care,

To help me through the trials of years when she would not be there.

My mother taught me how to work, to read, to think, to try,

The light of simple faith in God, the darkness of a lie.

My mother taught me how to smile and struggle on through life,

To seek for joy and growth and friends, and not the things of life.

Yes, Father knew he’d need some help.  I’d lots to face on earth.

He pondered all the blessings he could give me at my birth,

And loving me, he blessed me with the greatest he could send:

A mother’s love, a guiding hand, a teacher, and a friend.

Laura Workman

(That was her vision of motherhood.  And she was successful- Her Father Dan J. Workman)  Read at her Funeral