An assembly of Sparrows return regularly to my feeders, nestled in anticipation beneath towering maples. And a trio of birch trees provides a colorful backdrop for woodland personalities.

In the name of love, a magical interlude often takes place. And this moment is precious as a sparrow picks over black-oil sunflower seeds.

Her demeanor is definitely that of a mother the way she surrounds the air with a careful flutter. And monitors the area for harmful intruders prior to feeding a  smaller version of herself.

Baby sparrow waits patiently, clinging to a branch, beak yawning.

Mother swoops down then pushes her own beak inside dropping her cargo. This moment of luxury is a scene to cherish, a feast of pleasure.  I continue to observe. And mother sparrow creates a loop, from feeder to feathered child at least six times.

The older bird opens up each outer shell saving only soft inner seed, for her baby. Finally, young appetite abated, mother and child escape into new adventures.

So too, human children depend on mothers for nurturing. In spite of hardships, strength within older hearts encourages the young to carry on.

I know of another caring mother whose child requires total Personal Care. Her little boy has never known the friction of grass against bare knees. Nor has he ever felt the sting of pitched hard balls against a Catcher’s leather gloveBut, he adores his mother with a loving gaze.

She proudly pushes her son in his wheel chair, singing and carrying on a one-way conversation, oblivious to his physical limitations. “See my Brad,” she cheerfully relates to any passerby. “He enjoys his sunny day rides.”

And within the young man’s pattern of thought, he often manages a grunt of affirmation. Yes indeed, there is a blush of joy within life’s pain.

On another occasion a mother approached me to write a story for her only son, Bryant. Apparently he was quite distressed about an upcoming serious operation. And feared the possibility of crying like a baby anytime soon, while in hospital.

She assured him tears were a natural expression of grief, even joy.

In my short story, I had the brave lad get up early, although with trepidation, and be admitted into his hospital room. Unknown to Bryant, a surprise birthday party had been planned to take place shortly before his operation.

In my text, the boy asked his mom if it was okay to cry. Except his tears were for a mom who thoughtfully invited his friends to his hospital birthday party.  Mother and child enjoyed my story, which transformed into reality.

And I was pleased.

From my personal life experiences, I acknowledge mothers love their children exceedingly. And they allow nothing to sever perpetual ties. Even regarding death they have gladness in spirit.

Such was the case with another friend. Her son’s future was lost in a tragic accident. An unfortunate slide down a winter hill ended the bright hope of long life for nine-year old Ashley.

The absence of this young life in the mosaic of his family was devastating.

Yet his mother’s spirit was not crushed. A homemade poem remains pasted on her mother’s heart of hearts.

It reads:

   “Son, you’re a star so bright,
   You’re a shining in the night.
   You’re golden pride with silver
   And lace, I know your place.
   You’re the child of my dreams.
   You’re a Prince at peace.”

Each night she reads these words, wipes away tears, then tucks the letter under her pillow. Sleep quickly mingles with memory.

Such is the love of a mother for her child.
 

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