By: Jewell Burrow My mother, born in 1920, wrote this quaint children’s story. What a gift to find it again. She would love knowing that you read it to your children this year. Once upon a time, there was an old cobbler named Peter. Day by day, he worked away at his bench, a-tap-a-tap,a-tap-a-tap, trying to make each pair of …
I put down my book and looked at my watch—1:15 a.m. Surely I could fall asleep now. After all, I was already in bed. The events of the week had been tiring. A fifteen-hour flight back to the States. A graveside service for my 79-year-old dad. A stretch of tedious days and nights with my elderly mom. I wondered how …
My training union teacher had the flu, and Mama was substitute teaching at our small, rural church. Pansy Baptist Church sat between two cotton fields, smelling of old hymnals and potluck dinners, with an attendance board that testified ten present that evening. I was the only child. As Mother and I settled in the classroom, I asked her to tell me a …
Imagination was my childhood sanctuary on those rural drives. With just a little inspiration from the passing Texas landscape, I could fabricate life-like figures from the pages of my mind. I envisioned fanciful deer leaping through rows of cotton upon a summer windshield. In October, I invented a window-wide audition of tiny raindrops, each showcasing their best to dance with …
“Mama, what do you think is my greatest weakness?” I’d been at junior high camp for the week, and the youth pastor had challenged us to ask this question of someone that knew us well. Who better than my mom, who’d known me all fourteen years? Granted, I was a bit nervous as I awaited her answer. She’d probably say …
“3/4 cup of Judges 5:25.” The first time I read this was in 1969. Printed on a torn slip of notebook paper, my Sunday School teacher gave me this assignment as I joined my mom at the door. All the way home in our ’66 Impala, I chattered about the cooking party the following Saturday. Each student in our rural …
Holiday prep on the farm always involved the kitchen. And when you live twenty-one miles from the nearest grocer, you find stockpiling sugar, flour, and spices as traditional as evergreen, tinsel, and holly. Mama had lived through the depression, so our farmhouse had little chance of scarcity, especially during this time of year. Almost 600 square feet of its eighteen-hundred …
As I think about my own mother this weekend, I continue to find evidence of her quiet, steady influence. She touched many lives in a patient and thoughtful way with tireless acts of service. When I discovered her poem, “The Seed,” I thought, “That’s me…I was the heart into which she planted.” While this is true, I also continue to hear stories …
Sorting through forgotten letters and old photographs, I found this little story written by my mother in about 1963. Since she gave it the title “What Does Christmas Mean to You?”, I wonder if she had written it for a local newspaper or maybe to present to her ladies prayer group. Either way, you will want to grab a cup of hot …
For as long as I can remember, one of my mother’s favorite pieces of jewelry was a mustard seed necklace. Dangling from a simple, inexpensive chain, a globe of glass encapsulated a tiny grain of mustard. It held no intrinsic value, but my mother’s estimation of it made it valuable to me: “You see, Kandy,” Mother explained, “This tiny little …
