Mothers Sermon Illustrations

Mothers Sermon Illustrations

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Mother's Prayer

I cannot tell you how much I owe to the solemn words of my good mother. It was the custom on Sunday evenings while we were yet little children for her to stay at home with us, and then we sat around the table and read verse after verse and she explained the Scriptures to us. After that was done there came a time of pleading and the question was asked how long it would be before we would think about our state, how long before we would seek the Lord.

Then came a mother's prayer, and some of the words of our mother's prayer we shall never forget even when our hair is gray.—Charles Haddon Spurgeon.

Love droops; youth fades;
The leaves of friendship fall;
A mother's love outlives them all.—Holmes

For the hand that rocks the cradle
Is the hand that rules the world.—William Stewart Ross

Even He who died for us upon the Cross, in the last hour, in the unutterable agony of death, was mindful of His mother, as if to teach us that this holy love should be our last worldly thought—the last point of earth from which the soul should take its flight to heaven.—Longfellow

Mother Plods Battlefields

In Rome, Italy, a gray-haired old woman daily plods the fields and byways of Italy—carrying a spade, a black bag and tattered maps of World War II battle lines. She is Mama Lucia, the "mother of the dead." Her real name, Maria Lucia Apicella, is inscribed on the honor rolls of the Medals of Merit of the Italian Republic and on a special decoration as Die Mutter Der Toten of the German Federal Republic.

Almost twenty years after the thunder of cannon and the crackle of rifle-fire ceased on Italian World War II battlefields, the old widow is still searching ceaselessly for the unburied remains of thousands of soldiers. Thousands have been found and taken to British, French, Polish, Brazilian, American, Ger­man and Italian military cemeteries. Hundreds of these were found by Mamma Lucia. Her work has taken her from the battlefields of Salerno and Monte Cassino to the old Gothic line across North Italy. Painstakingly she searches for trampled-in foxholes, little hillside caves, or water-washed ditches where soldiers might have died. She finds bleached or mud-plastered bones, bits of uniforms, sometimes identification discs from which names can be known.

I wonder how many we could find among the living who are dead? Paul said: "She that liveth in pleasure is dead while she liveth" (I Timothy 5:6).

While reconnoitering in Westmoreland County, Virginia, one of General Washington's officers chanced upon a fine team of horses driven before a plow by a burly slave. Finer animals he had never seen. When his eyes had feasted on their beauty he cried to the driver: "Hello good fellow! I must have those horses. They are just such animals as I have been looking for."

The black man grinned, rolled up the whites of his eyes, put the lash to the horses' flanks and turned up another furrow in the rich soil.

The officer waited until he had finished the row; then throwing back his cavalier cloak the ensign of the rank dazzled the slave's eyes.

"Better see missus! Better see missus!" he cried waving his hand to the south, where above the cedar growth rose the towers of a fine old Virginia mansion.

The officer turned up the carriage road and soon was rapping the great brass knocker of the front door.

Quickly the door swung upon its ponderous hinges and a grave, majestic-looking woman confronted the visitor with an air of inquiry.

"Madam," said the officer doffing his cap and overcome by her dignity, "I have come to claim your horses in the name of the Government."

"My horses?" said she, bending upon him a pair of eyes born to command. "Sir, you cannot have them. My crops are out and I need my horses in the field."

"I am sorry," said the officer, "but I must have them, madam. Such are the orders of my chief."

"Your chief? Who is your chief, pray?" she demanded with restrained warmth.

"The commander of the American army, General George Washington," replied the other, squaring his shoulders and swelling his pride.

A smile of triumph softened the sternness of the woman's features. "You go and tell General George Washington for me," said she, "that his mother says he cannot have her horses."

The wagons of "the greatest show on earth" passed up the avenue at daybreak. Their incessant rumbling soon awakened ten-year-old Billie and five-year-old brother Robert. Their mother feigned sleep as the two white-robed figures crept past her bed into the hall, on the way to investigate. Robert struggled manfully with the unaccustomed task of putting on his clothes. "Wait for me, Billie," his mother heard him beg. "You'll get ahead of me."

"Get mother to help you," counseled Billie, who was having troubles of his own.

Mother started to the rescue, and then paused as she heard the voice of her younger, guarded but anxious and insistent.

"You ask her, Billie. You've known her longer than I have."

A little girl, being punished by her mother flew, white with rage, to her desk, wrote on a piece of paper, and then going out in the yard she dug a hole in the ground, put the paper in it and covered it over. The mother, being interested in her child's doings, went out after the little girl had gone away, dug up the paper and read:

Dear Devil:

Please come and take my mamma away.

One morning a little girl hung about the kitchen bothering the busy cook to death. The cook lost patience finally. "Clear out o' here, ye sassy little brat!" she shouted, thumping the table with a rolling-pin.

The little girl gave the cook a haughty look. "I never allow any one but my mother to speak to me like that," she said.

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