-tribute(noun) an act, statement, or gift that is intended to show gratitude,   respect or admiration

Other than my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, I can think of no one who more deserves a tribute from me than my parents. They did right by me.

It has been over twenty years since I was inspired to write poems – as tributes – to Mama and Daddy. The one I wrote for Mother was prompted when one of my sisters sent me a photo of mother’s hands, taken on Christmas morning 1994, to show off the ring Daddy had just given her. As I viewed that picture, my mind began listing all the tasks mother had accomplished with those beautiful hands. I entitled it My Mother’s Hands and presented it to her on Mother’s Day, 1995.

My Mother’s Hands 

My mother’s hands tenderly cared for five little daughters, yet sometimes longed for the “little lamb”* that waits for her in Heaven.

My mother’s hands labored from dawn – all day long at piecework – and at home until the sun went down.

My mother’s hands cut out biscuits, stirred preserves, snapped beans, decorated lamb cakes, and sliced homemade pumpkin pies.

My mother’s hands washed clothes, gather eggs, mopped linoleum floor and sewed dresses befitting princesses (some of us thought we were).

My mother’s hands rolled thousands of pin-curls, tied hundreds of sashes, and fashioned countless dolls to give away.

My mother’s hands wrote affectionate letters and told parables with chalk, but

Have not yet found time to pen the book stored away in her heart.

My mother’s hands waved good-bye, wiped away tears (some were her own), and welcomed fourteen grandchildren into the world.

My mother’s soft hands often folded in prayers, always opened in love, and through the years held tightly to her farmer’s rough ones.

My mother’s hands – talented, beautiful, industrious, noble – belie their four score years; at the sight of them I offer a prayer of gratitude

And a request that our Father in Heaven will continue to use and bless

My mother’s hands.

*the engraving on the tombstone of her first baby (a son that was stillborn) reads, “Our Little Lamb”

This poem was printed on the program at Mama’s funeral; during the service I added this line:

Until He takes them in His own and leads her safely home.

Just a year after mother’s death, my sister Anna sent me a photo of Daddy holding his first great-grandchild, Erin Olive Rudd. That picture sparked My Father’s Prayers, which I gave to him on Christmas in 1996. This poem expresses my perception of Daddy as a prayer warrior, a soul-winner, and a true man of God.

My Father’s Prayers

The memories form childhood are vivid of the way we ended each day – 

We would gather together quickly when Daddy said, “Let’s read and pray.”

The Scripture he loved so dearly, Father would read as we sat very still.

Before offering our prayers one by one, on the hard kitchen floor we would kneel.

My father’s prayers were humble, from a heart that was the same.

The cry of his heart was salvation as he called lost loved ones by name.

His prayers were earnest pleadings for those “nearest eternity.”

He petitioned for those preaching the gospel both at home and across the sea.

“Help me love you more and serve you better” expressed the longing of a servant heart;

And, “Keep me sweet in my spirit,” was a desire that God did impart.

His prayers showed me the way to Calvary and gave me the strength to stay.

I was thankful Father’s prayers continued even after he “gave me away.”

He prayed for my husband and children and just as when I was a child,

He spent hours in the barn interceding or at night with Mama by his side.

Father’s prayers are two-way conversations – he has told me of hearing God’s voice.

There is a closeness in his friendship with Jesus that gives him much cause to rejoice.

But the night we buried Mama, Father’s prayers were tearful pleas

That God would comfort and sustain him and somehow his sorrow relieve.

A year later with prayers of thanksgiving, Erin Olive arrived to delight

Her very special great-grandfather who will pray for her every night.

Now, Daddy knows he’s not getting younger; he’s beginning to feel his age, too.

So sometimes I hear him praying, “Lord, take me home to be with You.”

When the Lord gives the call he’ll be ready; with shouts of glory he’ll take his place.

Until then, Daddy will be “reading and praying” and witnessing of God’s saving grace.

When I read these poems, I cannot help but compare Mother and Daddy’s personalities to those of Mary and Martha in the New Testament. Both of my parents were certainly industrious, but Daddy’s character reflected the adoring worship of Mary, while Mother often exhibited Martha’s hurried, must-get-things-done persona.

When I allow the cinema of remembrance to roll, I see Daddy sitting at the feet of Jesus and Mother busily preparing meals and complaining just a little about having to do so much herself. Mother read her Bible and prayed, but Daddy prayed…long hours in the barn interceding…every night with his family gathered around…throughout the day as he continually called on the name of Jesus.

Church attendance in our home was a priority…but I sensed Daddy looked forward to it a little more than Mother (possibly, because as with Martha, there were many preparations to be made). Daddy desired to be in church whenever he had the opportunity – even Saturday night revival services. Mother was more likely to stay home on Saturday night – probably finishing a dress for one of us girls to wear on Sunday morning.

As in many successful marriages, Mama and Daddy’s temperaments were quite opposite. I never saw my father get angry, or even visibly upset. He had a sweetness in his spirit that permeated his being. Like Jesus, he was “gentle and humble of heart.” Mother was wonderful and loving and precious and generous – she loved to do for others; but at times she would be quite beside herself with worry. (Back then we called it “a case of the nerves.”)

Together, they were the best. My childhood was complete. I never had fears that mother and daddy did not love each other or that either of them would leave. I was secure…and I was loved. 

Although I never journaled (shame on me), I did keep copies of letters I wrote to family and friends. They helped record many life events and reading them jogs a lot of memories. I want to share one I wrote to Mama and Daddy at Christmas, 1993. We tried to make it home for Christmas when we could, but the years we didn’t, I enjoyed sending a special gift, presented in a fun way. That year, I had purchased cereal bowls at a quaint shop in Brooklyn that were exactly like the ones Mama and Daddy had always used for their oatmeal – in fact, we called them the “oatmeal bowls.” (They were round off-white stoneware, about three inches high and five inches across, with decorative ridges encircling the sides.) I was thrilled to find exact replicas, and immediately started developing my plan. I placed a crisp $100 bill in each one, wrapped them individually in tissue paper, and carefully placed them in a round Quaker oatmeal box. (That’s how I remember the size of the bowls – they just barely fit into the box.) I placed the oatmeal box – well-padded with newspaper – in a larger square box, enclosed the letter and took it to the post office to mail so it would arrive in time for Christmas.

Dear Mother and Daddy,

I remember your big oatmeal bowls – with All Bran and sometimes raisins or chopped apples on top.

I remember the year I was the only daughter at home (lonely) and I would set the table for you before going to bed at night – saving you a little precious time in the morning, Mother, because you had to leave so early and you worked so hard.

I remember lots of cold, sticky oatmeal on mornings when I slept later than the others.

I remember going out in the woods to chop down our Christmas tree and having to discard several feet of it when we got home because we always chose such a big one. I remember Daddy tying it to a nail placed in the corner of the living room wall with binding twine. I remember the plastic Santa Clause with the light inside that we always stuck in the middle of the fragrant cedar. I remember the best Santa Claus of all – with boxes of apples, chocolate crème drops, orange slices, coconut bon-bons, and hoop cheese.; and of course the best Mrs. Santa who presented her daughters with beautiful dolls, teas sets, and handmade pink satin and lace robes worthy of a princess.

I remember the most wonderful teal blue velvet ensemble, complete with hat and coat made by the most talented hands; and I remember the bravest Daddy in the world who ran across the street to retrieve that hat when the wind got a hold of it.

I remember being happy and feeling blessed, and I still do. You gave me the most important gift – a Christian home – but you gave me so very much more. Thank you for all your hard work, for doing what you thought was right (you did know best), and for not being disappointed when the last baby turned out to be Ruth Zachary instead of Zachary David.

I remember the last Christmas I was with you before I got married. I had driven to Ro and Bob’s from South Carolina, after working second shift at the hospital. I had not planned to go home because I didn’t think I’d really be missed, what with twin granddaughters and a new grandson to make over; but at the last minute I decided to surprise you. I parked my car down the street, startled the Stogner’s when I rang their doorbell at 5 a.m., and stayed in the guest room until you arrived to open gifts about ten Christmas morning. From behind the almost-closed door, I heard Mama say, “This would be a perfect Christmas if only Ruth were here.” That made it more than perfect for me.

I’ve been home very few Christmases since, but because of the love and happy memories you gave me, I always feel near to you on Christmas. There are some things that miles cannot separate.

I love you both very much. You are the best parents in the world.

Merry Christmas and enjoy your oatmeal!

Your daughter, 

Ruth