We do not tip the glamor Richter-scale
Of fashion, fortune or front-page applause
Yet we embrace, like heaven’s Holy Grail
Each humble task of love’s domestic cause
There are no halls of fame or monuments
To honor dish-soap hands of mama-smiles
No recognition for the hours spent
Of washed and folded, scrubbed and polished miles
We do not labor for crass platitude
Or trophies to acknowledge our pain
But oh, the childish grin of gratitude
Endears to us what some view as mundane
There are no banners waving in the air
For she who, for the thousandth time has served
Supper at six and no one really cares
Yet she toils not for recompense deserved
She toils to see her happy children smile
To nurture tenderly her patch of sod
Not for the wealth of fortune’s fleeting guile
But to make home a little glimpse of God
© Janet Martin
The inspiration for this poem;
Both of my daughters work at Long-term care facilities. Yesterday while exchanging stories, they agreed it is so touching to see some of the ladies with dementia rocking and patting dolls or folding and re-folding tea-towels or aprons; re-living their glory-days…
We watched the movie The Help yesterday.Wow! That's all I will say.
On the week-end one of my daughters commented on how I seem so happy and content just doing laundry and stuff...ah, if she only knew:) and I pray someday she may, Lord-willing:) It's not the laundry, the dishes, the cleaning, the 'stuff'; it's the LOVE!
The other evening after supper had been over for a while suddenly 'sonny' mentions while passing through the kitchen, 'oh, by the way mom, thanks for supper. It was really good'.'
I dedicate this song to all mamas and daddies.