This is right before Mother’s Day weekend and it hit me this morning that I need to do a tablescape for this special weekend. My own mother wasn’t impressed by showy homes or tables wearing expensive dinner plates. She was interested in knowing the person not their trophies of wealth. She was a humble woman that lived her life as directed by God’s word. I couldn’t be prouder to have called her my mother. I ran this last year for Mother’s Day. It was written by our late Joe. L. McDonald/Daily Leader.
I found this folded in her bible.
A story of Love, Duty and Moms
A mother has no need for praise, no more than spring has or a rose in bloom.
She is, above all else, love’s embodiment, and love seeks no praise for it needs none: it desires only to do its lovely duty.
A mother is the vessel through which love’s duty is performed, manifesting itself in the simplest chore as well as in the greatest sacrifice: the made-up bed to self-denial for others.
Love is a mother’s instinct, her magnificent gift from nature which in turn becomes a measureless and an inexhaustible fount of giving. It is the profound theme running the very width and breadth of nature.
I observed a mother recently performing her instinctive duties in a profound and graceful manner. It seemed the grand symbol of the essence of motherhood.
From a window I watched as she busily brought in food to her three infants and hastily carried out the trash, and when this work was done for a while, she sat on guard nearby ready to defend to her death against any harm that came toward her kin.
Then thunder roared overhead and lighting streaked and rain began to pour, but fast as had been the lightning streak, the mother cardinal was in her nest hovered over her three babies not two weeks old and not a rain drop would touch them.
Turning upward her red-tipped beak as if in a show of pride, the mother bird puffed out her breast and spread her feathers, making a perfectly warm and dry embrace for her young.
The rain poured and splattered about her and a steady stream found its way through the leaves and limbs that cradled her nest, but she seemed not the least perturbed by it.
Even when the wind began wrenching the bush that held her and her young, the mother cardinal moved not a single feather. She surely would have clung to the nest even if it had been blown to the ground where the flooding rain water likely would drowned her.
The next day the sun was bright and hot, and the mother puffed up her feathers to allow the coolness of a soft breeze to touch her young.
And as if she had a built in clock that signaled feeding time she would fly off and return with some morsel for hungry mouths, never gone long enough or far enough for the nest to be without ample protection.
It was a simple symphony of giving.
Love. Duty. A praise-worth performance that needs no praise.
Written by Joe L. McDonald/ The Daily Leader
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