At Days End by John Hall

John Hall's poem says so much!  At the end of the day, I like to take a quick look over all I did and ask myself, "What if I hadn't done that?  Would it have mattered?

At Days End

Is anybody happier because you passed his way?

Does anyone remember that you spoke to him today?

The day is almost over, and its toiling time is through

Is there anyone to utter now a kindly word of you?

Can you say tonight in parting, with the day that's slipping fast, 

That you helped a single brother, of the many that you passed?

Is a single heart rejoicing over what you did or said?

Does the man whose hopes were fading, now with courage look ahead?

Did you waste the day or lose it, was it well or sorely spent?

Did you leave a trail of kindness, or a scar of discontent?

As you close your eyes in slumber, do you think that God will say

You have earned one more tomorrow, by the work you did today?

(Thank goodness we don't have to earn Heaven! ~J.C.)

Working Mother

For twenty-five years I ran a child-care business in my home.  I, also, taught classes for parents and child-care workers.  I often read "Working Mother" in my classes.  It touched the hearts of parents who knew the pain of leaving their children in someone else's care and it helped child-care workers to empathize with some parent's emotions.  I never wanted us, in the child care field, to feel we were somehow superior to parents who had to make the decision to work!

Working Mother  

As I sit here chained to my computer and phone, I steal a thousand quick glances at your pretty picture on the corner of my desk.  With each glance I breathe a silent prayer that God will be with you because I cannot.  I dream of baking cookies for after school snacks instead of making assembly-line coffee, each mug programed for the exact amount of sugar, sweetner, coffee and cream.

I dream of chairing PTA meetings instead of typing proposals and specifications.  I want to be there for you.  I want to participate in your life instead of watching from the sidelines and hearing about it secondhand.

I did not conceive you so that others could rear you.  I did not carry you nine months and then anxiously count fingers and toes so that I could get calls from school when you are sick or upset.  These calls send me into a frustrated frenzy because you must pour out your fears to another woman.

For now we do the best we can.  Weekends are OURS.  Cobwebs, laundry and yard work somehow take a backseat because cobwebs, grass and dirty clothes do not lose teeth, skin knees or outgrow blue jeans.  These weekends are crammed full of tiny lessons on self-esteem, values, maturing, quiet understandings and fun.  I pray that a strong bond is being built between us.  Mother to daughter, friend to friend, woman to little woman.

So here's to all the kids who don't feel in the least deprived.  Here's to the child care workers with nerves of steel and unending patience.  Here's to the schoolteachers and school secretaries who play surrogate mother.  Here's to the grandmas who stand in the gap between the three o'clock dismissal and the five o'clock rush hour.  And, here's to the "liberated" career moms who blow secret kisses to photographs while taking other people's messages and typing other people's memos.   by Marilyn Loeffel