Happy Mother’s Day My Dear Wife

What does it mean to celebrate Mother’s Day? What does it mean to acknowledge someone so important as your wife and mother of your children?

It means to me, that I acknowledge a person with so much value and importance, that words can never adequately describe how I feel.

It means that there is a person in my life who does so much on a daily basis, that when she is sick, the house goes down the drain. You might say, ‘Well, you clean it then!’ The problem is, I do. But for some reason, it’s never the same. It’s like changing a light bulb by turning off the power or changing the light bulb by smashing the bulb first.

She has a way about her that is second to none. She is so smart, and sharp, and quick, and witty…our children might think they get away with something, but nope. Children being children, do their best to skirt the rules, and push the boundaries, but she catches it all. Sometimes, there’s a fire in her eye, when the children know they have crossed the line, and sometimes, she just gently lets them know, she knows, and that’s good enough.

My wife is a jewel in a world of coal. She is a rare beauty in a land of fluff. She is a masterpiece among a world of copies.

My wife is the mother of my four precious children. She cares, clothes, feeds, cleans and nurtures them. The love, attention, caring and patience she exhibits makes one wonder if all of the talents for being a mom were given to her.

On this special day, yes, I am focusing on my wife. Yes, this day is dedicated to her. But who will get the glory and thanks for giving us such a gem? God of course.

Blessings on the hand of women!
Angels guard its strength and grace,
In the palace, cottage, hovel,
Oh, no matter where the place;
Would that never storms assailed it,
Rainbows ever gently curled;
For the hand that rocks the cradle
Is the hand that rules the world.

Infancy’s the tender fountain,
Power may with beauty flow,
Mother’s first to guide the streamlets,
From them souls unresting grow—
Grow on for the good or evil,
Sunshine streamed or evil hurled;
For the hand that rocks the cradle
Is the hand that rules the world.

Woman, how divine your mission
Here upon our natal sod!
Keep, oh, keep the young heart open
Always to the breath of God!
All true trophies of the ages
Are from mother-love impearled;
For the hand that rocks the cradle
Is the hand that rules the world.

Blessings on the hand of women!
Fathers, sons, and daughters cry,
And the sacred song is mingled
With the worship in the sky—
Mingles where no tempest darkens,
Rainbows evermore are hurled;
For the hand that rocks the cradle
Is the hand that rules the world.

William Ross Wallace

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