In Turning Homeward…

There is something hallowed in turning homeward. Homeward turns the child tired from school or play. Homeward turns the man or woman weary from work, weary from the problems and the hard competitive pace. Homeward turn the tired to the long shadows of the sunset. “All things turn home at eventide.”

Home⎯and Mother⎯and Memories: memories of turning home when hungry; of turning home when cold, when hurt, when sick; of turning home when the abrasive side of the world has rubbed us roughly; of turning home when happy; and of turning home when there is nowhere else to turn⎯home, to an open door, to a sense of belonging, to a sense of safety and assurance! Home⎯and Mother⎯and Memories!

But as to young mothers: they hardly have time for memories. What they need are more hands, more hours, more help; and it seems that there should be at least two of themselves to be all that they are, as small hands pull at their skirts, as small arms reach out for them. They are so very much wanted, so very much a part of everything.

But think for a moment what it would mean to be the center of so much, to be so much sought and consulted; to be the very queen of a family circle; to be looked to for almost everything, in the midst of demanding and sometimes tiring noises, but nevertheless of meaningful and wonderful noises⎯to be the center of all this, and then suddenly to have it all cease. Think what it would mean to feel needed so much, and then to feel needed no more; to have those with whom we have shared so much move out and take their interests elsewhere. And then⎯think what it would mean to be remembered!

This brings us once more to the subject of sharing⎯not only the sharing of our substance, but also the sharing of our very selves, our thoughtfulness, our love, with those who have shared so much with us. Let there be a kind of kindly sharing; a sharing of the time it takes to go home, to call home, to write home; to remember those who are there, even though other obligations have taken us somewhat from their close and constant circle. Let there be some message, some gesture of remembrance, some sharing of confidence, some sharing of ourselves, some sharing of our lives with other lonely lives. And let there be no lonely unremembered mothers.

There is something hallowed in turning homeward . . .