Somebody's Mother

We had Stake Conference this weekend. I think I already mentioned that. I think.

Anyway, I had gone to the meetings hoping to gain some direction for a problem I've been feeling lately. My purpose gave me extra energy and I got so much more out of this meeting than I have in a long time (too long).

I took lots of notes and plan to reread them occasionally, but the best answer I got this weekend came in the opening song of Sunday's meeting. It was in the chorus of "Let Us All Press On" (Hymns, 243).

But since I was taking notes, I was listening and gaining more from my time. The speakers, in order, were Elder C. Scott Grow, Sister Barbara Thompson, Elder Robert D. Hales and President Monson. Of course, it was just before President Monson's talk that Sarah insisted that I take her out and make her happy. So I got to listen to that one and it wasn't as enriching. But he did share a poem that impressed me. In fact, I liked it so much that I looked it up online and thought I'd share it with you. As a mother to 3 sons, I hope that they will be service minded and considerate when I'm not there to insist upon it. (I hope that for the 3 daughters as well!) Try to hear President Monson's voice, if you can, while you read this. He is so good at putting the feeling into words.


Somebody's Mother
by Mary Dow Brine

The woman was old and ragged and gray
And bent with the chill of the Winter's day.
The street was wet with a recent snow
And the woman's feet were aged and slow.
She stood at the crossing and waited long,
Alone, uncared for, amid the throng
Of human beings who passed her by
Nor heeded the glance of her anxious eye.
Down the street with laughter and shout,
Glad in the freedom of 'school let out,'
Came the boys like a flock of sheep,
Hailing the snow piled white and deep.
Past the woman so old and gray
Hastened the children on their way.
Nor offered a helping hand to her—
So meek, so timid, afraid to stir
Lest the carriage wheels or the horses' feet
Should crowd her down in the slippery street.
At last came one of the merry troop,
The gayest lad of all the group;
He paused beside her and whispered low,
"I'll help you cross, if you wish to go."
Her aged hand on his strong young arm
She placed, and so, without hurt or harm,
He guided the trembling feet along,
Proud that his own were firm and strong.
Then back again to his friends he went,
His young heart happy and well content.
"She's somebody's mother, boys, you know,
For all she's aged and poor and slow,
And I hope some fellow will lend a hand
To help my mother, you understand,
If ever she's poor and old and grey,
And her own dear boy is far away."
"Somebody's mother" bowed low her head
In her home that night, and the prayer she said
Was, "God be kind to the noble boy,
Who is somebody's son, and pride and joy!"

And this got me to thinking of the many past church presidents that have been able to share a poem from memory (though I don't know if this is the case here). We don't live in that type of society any more. That makes me sad. Maybe we'd be a little less hurried and "stressed out" if we took the time to memorize beautiful words like these.