Your Mother, by J.R. Miller, 1898

Your mother is the first friend you ever had. When you came into this great world as an utter stranger, not knowing anyone, never having looked into any face — you found her love waiting for you. Instantly, you had . . .

• • a friend,
  • a bosom to nestle in,
  • an arm to encircle you,
  • an eye to watch you,
  • a hand to minister to your helplessness and need.

Your mother received you eagerly, took you into her deepest heart, and began to live for you.

You never can know what you owe to your mother.

It was long before you knew what she was doing for you. She sheltered and cared for you in your helpless infancy in unwearying patience and gentleness.

• She nursed you through your illnesses, your teething, your whooping cough, your measles, and all the other illnesses that infancy is heir to.
• She walked the floors with you at night, trying to soothe your pains and quiet your bad tempers.
• She gave up her days to you, teaching you how to walk, talk, use your hands, eyes, and ears—and give you your first lessons in loving, praying, and in everything beautiful.

You do not know; you never can know — all your mother has done for you.

It was not easy for her to do it. She never complained, for love does not count the cost of its serving and sacrificing; nevertheless, there was a serious cost. Some of the wrinkles you now see on her face are marks left by the toil and care that she gave so freely to you — marks of her unselfish love!

Perhaps she is not as beautiful as she used to be — she has wrinkles and a tired look and seems older, with more gray hair. Not so beautiful? Ah, she is more beautiful because of these wrinkles, traces, and furrows. They are love’s handwriting. They are like the soldier’s scars — honorable because they tell what she has suffered, sacrificed, endured — for the love of you.

Now, what about this mother of yours?

Do you think you appreciate her at her true worth? Do you think you are returning to her in the worthiest way, the love which she has lavished upon you through the years? Do you think you are proving yourself worthy of such unselfishness, such self-forgetfulness, such loving and serving unto the uttermost?

It is beautiful when a mother is old and feeble or sick —

to see her children ministering to her in sweet love, without thought of cost, without stint of sacrifice, doing all they can to comfort, bless, and brighten her old age. Often, this picture is seen. When the children were in their infancy, the mother’s hands ministered to them in countless ways; now, they are giving back a little of the love and paying a portion of the debt they owe to her. God must look down with gladness upon such holy scenes.

But not all loving mothers are sick or infirm; sometimes, they are strong and active —

but lonely. Are you good to your mother when she is not an invalid? Some of us wait until our friends are sick before we show them the best that is in our hearts.

Just today, a sick woman said to me that she had never dreamed she had so many friends or that they loved her so much — until she fell alarmingly ill, and the doctor said she might not recover. Then, the love poured out. Everybody she had ever known came to ask about her, express sympathy for her suffering, or offer service.

This was very beautiful. But it would have been better if some of the love had been shown before—when she was well and strong, carrying burdens and dispensing good. It would have made life easier and sweeter for her. It would have given her courage for even better and richer serving.

If your mother were to grow very sick tomorrow —

there is nothing you would not do for her gladly and cheerfully. She would also be most grateful to you for your gentle kindness. But think how much of this ministry of love you might render now, though she is not sick.

For example, you can give her your fullest confidence and maintain a close and intimate friendship with her. Some young people drift away from their mothers. They do not give her their heart’s confidence as they used to do in their childhood. They hide things from her. They resent her questions when she would know about their companionships, their friendships, their pleasures, and their plans for life. Having her children confide in her and always telling her everything is a great comfort to a good mother. Why should they not? Surely, she has a right to know their most confidential affairs.

The son—now a full-grown man with heart and hands full—

can give his mother no greater joy than by coming into her room every evening for a little confidential talk, just such as he used to have with her when he was a little fellow.

The daughter—now a woman —

needs never to be afraid to trust her mother with all the interests of her happy life. She needs the mother-counsel quite as much now as she did when she was a child — and the mother-heart craves the sweet confidence.

We should never cease to be children to our mother.

Nothing is more beautiful than such intimacy of children with a mother, even though the children are men and women in mid-life. To their mothers, they are always children, and their confidence is always sweet and sacred.

Another way you can return your mother’s love and pay the debt you owe her, especially if you are a daughter — is by relieving her as much as possible of the care of the home and the housekeeping. Some daughters seem very thoughtless about this. The mother has always done everything — perhaps she has done her children harm this way. Some mothers are too good to their children — they make life too easy for them and bear too many burdens. It is mistaken kindness.

Our best friend — the best mother —

is one who makes us do what we can ourselves, thus training us to be self-reliant. It would be better for mothers to do as the eagle does with her young — make the nest rough for them, even push them out of it so they may learn to use their wings.

But no daughter, when old enough to think, should ever be content to let her mother continue to do everything for her while she sits with folded hands, runs the streets with her friends or passes her time reading worthless novels. She ought to determine to do her part — that her mother may have rest. It is not a picture that God can rejoice over — a strong, healthy girl lounging or wasting her time and her poor, tired mother toiling, slaving, serving in the kitchen and living room, cooking, sweeping, dusting, sewing, darning until her strength is exhausted.

This is enough to start earnest thoughts about your mother.

What kind of a child are you to this good mother of yours? No matter your age, whether you are younger or older, it is all the same. What kind of a child are you to your mother? We make our lives beautiful only when we are true and faithful in all our relations with others. No matter what eminence we attain or what noble character, there will always be a blot on our record and our life as God sees it. If we climb upward ourselves, we fail in any of love’s duties to others. To be a complete man or woman in the world — you must ever be a loyal and faithful child to the mother you owe so much to.

“Your Mother” from J.R. Miller’s book, “Young People’s Problems” (lightly edited for 21st-century readability)