Dear Shepherdess: From the Potomac Conference "Shepherdess Scene," Judy Sabnani writes: "It had seemed an unusually trying day. The baby had been fussy with teething pains; dinner getting was a chore; I had endlessly changed diapers, wiped runny noses, and washed grubby little hands. Even when all was quiet at last, there were the loads of wash to do and toys to pick up. Then it struck me—my mother went through all this with me! She knew the frustrations, the fatigue, the sleep-broken nights, and the futility of trying to keep that glass door free of little fingerprints. She knew the awesome responsibility of good discipline and the yearning of young minds to know Jesus. Gratitude enveloped me for the untiring love and devotion she showed to me and which I now felt for my children. In these days when the mother's role has been delegated by some to a less-than-desirable category, how encouraging it is to know that opportunities of inestimable worth and interests infinitely precious are committed to every mother. The humble round of duties which women have come to regard as a wearisome task should be looked upon as a grand and noble work. The king upon his throne has no higher work than has the mother in molding her children's characters for eternity. An angel could not ask for a higher mission. This month we observe a day to honor mothers. Let's let them know that there are times when we realize all that they have been, are, and will be, to us."
God bless all mothers. With love, Kay.
I always wondered why Mama left me her glass rolling pin when she died. I had four sisters who loved to bake, but I didn't. Still, there was the little note tucked into Mama's Bible at the book of Proverbs saying that she wanted me to have it.
Originally that glass rolling pin had been a vinegar bottle. Daddy brought it home on Mama's birthday back in 1933 when the depression was on. He had gone to town to get some seed on credit because, due to the drought, we hadn't made a crop the previous year.
With only a dime in his overalls' pocket, Daddy stopped at a carnival to buy Mama a Kewpie doll. However, he said later he knew Mama would think it foolish of him to spend his last cent on something that wasn't useful, so he bought the rolling pin filled with vinegar instead. When he got home he tip-toed into the kitchen holding it behind him and slipped up on Mama while she was stirring something on the stove. Placing one hand over her eyes, he changed his voice and said, "If you guess who this is, you get a prize."
Of course, Mama knew it was Daddy, but she guessed "Franklin Delano Roosevelt," and got the prize anyway. Mama was pleased. "It's such a pretty rolling pin," she said, smiling, "and I can use the vinegar, too." She kissed Daddy on the cheek.
Mama made cinnamon rolls, cookies, doughnuts, pie crusts, and every morning she made biscuits for breakfast. When my sisters and I heard Mama scraping the flour from her dough-board with her baking-powder-can biscuit cutter, we knew we'd better get up or we'd miss getting a hot biscuit.
Best of all was when we'd get off the school bus, hungry as coyote cubs, and find Mama baking cinnamon rolls. I'd unroll one bit by bit to get the full flavor of the sticky insides, and slowly savor every bite. I still think that's the best way to eat a cinnamon roll.
Mama took pride in baking good things, and never a guest left our house without first "having a bit of something" (her words) she'd baked. Friends and relatives by the dozens visited us, but I didn't attribute that to Mama's hospitality and her genius for making folks feel at home. I only saw that she worked hard and spent a lot of time cooking.
"When I grow up," I thought (and often said aloud), "I'm not going to spend much time in the kitchen. None of that drudgery for me. I'll live in a city and I'll join some clubs and maybe play golf." And as we girls grew up and got married, that's the way things turned out.
Because it was dear to Mama, I wanted to keep the rolling pin, but what would I do with it? I mounted it on a framed, cloth-covered background, stuffed it with miniature plastic fruit, and hung it on my kitchen wall.
My golf friends oohed and aahed over my heirloom and said how clever I was to think of that special way of decorating my kitchen.
During these years, my husband and I had two lovely, lively boys. Overnight, it seemed, they grew to school age. They were hardly any trouble at all. They always played at some friend's house and seldom brought anyone home with them. They loved to visit one particular friend who lived down the street. They spent so much time there that, even with my golfing and club meetings, I missed them and I was lonely.
One day, when they persistently begged to go to Bobby's house, I asked, crossly, "Why do you always want to go there?"
"Well, his Mom makes cinnamon rolls and cookies and stuff," the oldest said wistfully.
"And we help," his brother added, proudly.
I let them go and, as I turned to the kitchen, my eye fell on my ingenious wall decoration. For a long moment I stood there staring at the rolling pin and thinking. Cinnamon rolls, he'd said.
Suddenly, in the stillness that enveloped me, my heart cried out, "Oh, Mama, now I know."
Hurriedly, I took the vinegar bottle rolling pin down, dismounted it, washed it. Then I dusted off my cookbook and turned to "Breads, Yeast." There ought to be a cinnamon roll recipe here. . . .
As the dough was rising, I wanted to read again Mama's note willing me her rolling pin. I'd left it where I'd found it in her Bible at the book of Proverbs. I took her Bible from the bookcase and opened it. Funny, I hadn't noticed before that the note was at Chapter 31. As I scanned the page, verses 27 and 28 leaped out at me as if they were underlined in red: "She looketh well to the ways of her household, and eateth not the bread of idleness. Her children arise up, and call her blessed."
Now, as I cleaned the doughboard and put the rolling pin away, I repeated Proverbs 31:27, 28. I often say those verses to myself since I learned the real best use for Mama's rolling pin.
Just then I heard one son call, "Hey, Mom, we're home!" And above the happy chatter of a bunch of kids, the other one yelled, "I smell cinnamon rolls! Are they ready?"
"They are. I'm glad you're home," I answered. And I murmured, "Thank you, Mama. Thank you!"
Prayers from the parsonage
Her husband is the pastor of the largest congregation in town. Though we have not been introduced, I have seen her several times. Perhaps she thinks about me, even as I speculate about her.
Does she feel pressured to live up to others' expectations? Is she ever resentful of the demands on her husband or of his fragmented time at home? At times does she also wish for someone near enough to visit when she needs to talk with a friend?
If she heard my name, would she respond, "Oh, yes, her husband pastors that congregation in the little white church on the corner"? If only we could get acquainted, not as the wives of Pas tors So-and-so, but as two women who have a common bond!
We both love You, Lord. Help us, please, to bridge the gap that our different religions create. If we could meet and learn to know each other, we might become friends.
Help me to make the first move.
