A Mother's Legacy by Sharilyn Martin
Come with me to a an old farmhouse where a mother kneels in prayer. Tears flow as she cries out to God for strength to go on, for the sake of her three little ones. If only her husband would be a Godly man and spiritual leader! Although, he provides the material needs of his family, his neglect of their emotional and spiritual needs is a burden that threatens to crush her. The flame of faith burns feebly tonight, and she feels like giving up. Is the struggle worth it?
Go with me, fifty years later, to a softly lighted chapel where the woman's wasted body now lies in a coffin. Her children, adults now, speak reverently of the mother who provided a guiding light through their formative years, drawing them to their own faith in her Savior. A score of young Christian men and women look lovingly on their grandmother's face. Tomorrow her grandsons will carry her to her grave. Tomorrow they will sing of a praying mother and grandma who loved Jesus.
Was the struggle worth it?
My imagination pushes the fast forward button of time, and another fifty years slips by. In my mind's eye, I see another coffin in the chapel - not my grandmother's, but mine. The little ones that snuggle in my arms today will then be grown men and women with families of their own. What will the picture look like?
Today I am painting that picture of tomorrow. Today the colors are wet in my hands, but tomorrow they will have dried.
What kind of legacy will I leave?
-excerpt from "The Hand That Rocks The Cradle"
Go with me, fifty years later, to a softly lighted chapel where the woman's wasted body now lies in a coffin. Her children, adults now, speak reverently of the mother who provided a guiding light through their formative years, drawing them to their own faith in her Savior. A score of young Christian men and women look lovingly on their grandmother's face. Tomorrow her grandsons will carry her to her grave. Tomorrow they will sing of a praying mother and grandma who loved Jesus.
Was the struggle worth it?
My imagination pushes the fast forward button of time, and another fifty years slips by. In my mind's eye, I see another coffin in the chapel - not my grandmother's, but mine. The little ones that snuggle in my arms today will then be grown men and women with families of their own. What will the picture look like?
Today I am painting that picture of tomorrow. Today the colors are wet in my hands, but tomorrow they will have dried.
What kind of legacy will I leave?
-excerpt from "The Hand That Rocks The Cradle"
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