I was the rose in my momma’s hands. All my sisters stood by her bed that night, while she held that rose so gentle and tight. I could hear them talking. I could hear them pray the night the Lord took momma away. But clear, cracked but not broken, stained with her families love. If you could hear my momma speak you could hear her say, I love the Lord Jesus and my family in my own special way. She loved us all – no one more than the other. I thank God for letting her be our precious mother.
Although this is a relatively new stone, the message on front caught my attention and pulled at my heart. We all have a mother we love, whether still with us or in heaven. I suppose this is a tribute to them all. Velta’s love of quilting and working crossword puzzles corresponded with my mother’s hobbies.
Saturday, March 22, 2008
Saturday, March 25, 1995