To the Mother of Her Who My Child Loves

by Vernie Lynn DeMille

 

It was your gentle hands,

In a childhood long past,

That tended the heart

Of the woman he loves.  

 

It was your voice that called her,

From work, from play,  

From miles and hours, 

And sometimes countries away, 

 

 

To remind her to eat, 

To rest,  to pray, and

To remember you loved her

No matter what, who,  or where she was. 

 

It was your heart that loved her,

When she was brand new, 

Warm from the womb

And still needing every moment of your time, strength, blood, and tears. 

 

 

It was your sleepless nights

That gave her the comfort she craved

When her heart was broken,

In a million tiny ways, 

 

And she still needed 

Your warmth, your nurturing,

your wisdom, and the security 

Of your mother’s heart. 

 

 

It was your generosity, 

That gave, and gave, and gave; 

Long past the point of exhaustion, 

Beyond the point of grief, and disappointment,  and regret, 

 

Drawing from a well of love, 

And hope, forgiveness, and joy

That you found at the feet of God

In your own Gethsemane moments, 

 

 

That nurtured the growth 

Of that tiny baby girl

Into the woman of faith

Who loves my son.

 

I see your heart, 

The places where it shattered

And you allowed the broken edges

To expand the sphere of your influence.

 

 

I see your heart in hers.

The shadow of your midnight hours

In the sacrifices she makes, 

The imprint of your hands in how hers serve. 

 

I reap the harvest of your hopes,

In the love she brings 

To the garden of my own

Dreams and wishes,

 

And I wish to thank you;

For the abundance that she is,

Because of the woman you are, 

And the love you gave her to grow.