The idea of an annual Mother’s (Peace) Day originated with Julia Ward Howe, remembered primarily as the poet who wrote the words for “The Battle Hymn of the Republic.”
Born in May, 1819, Julia was an abolitionist and, with her husband Samuel Gridley Howe, co-published the anti-slavery newspaper The Commonwealth. She was a committed Christian, also active in the peace movement and the women's suffrage movement.
In 1870, Howe became outraged by the ravages of the Civil and Franco-Prussian Wars. Believing that women had a particular sensitivity and understanding of the human costs of war, Julia called upon women everywhere to stand up for peaceful resolutions and negotiations rather than violence and bloodshed. In an effort to draw this into public conversation and commitment, Howe issued a proclamation:
Arise then...women of this day!
Arise, all women who have hearts!
Whether your baptism be of water or of tears!
Say firmly:
"We will not have questions answered by irrelevant agencies,
Our husbands will not come to us, reeking with carnage,
For caresses and applause.
Our sons shall not be taken from us to unlearn
All that we have been able to teach them of charity, mercy and patience.
We, the women of one country,
Will be too tender of those of another country
To allow our sons to be trained to injure theirs.
From the bosum of a devastated Earth a voice goes up with
Our own. It says: "Disarm! Disarm!
The sword of murder is not the balance of justice."
Blood does not wipe our dishonor,
Nor violence indicate possession.
As men have often forsaken the plough and the anvil at the summons of war,
Let women now leave all that may be left of home
For a great and earnest day of counsel.
Let them meet first, as women, to bewail and commemorate the dead.
Let them solemnly take counsel with each other as to the means
Whereby the great human family can live in peace...
Each bearing after his own time the sacred impress, not of Caesar,
But of God -
In the name of womanhood and humanity, I earnestly ask
That a general congress of women without limit of nationality,
May be appointed and held at someplace deemed most convenient
And the earliest period consistent with its objects,
To promote the alliance of the different nationalities,
The amicable settlement of international questions,
The great and general interests of peace.
In 1872, the first Mothers' Peace Day Observance was held on the second Sunday in June, and the meetings continued for several years. Her idea was widely accepted, but she was never able to get the day recognized as an official holiday.
After she died, other women took on the cause of establishing a Mother’s Peace Day, notably Anna Jarvis, an Appalachian woman whose own mother was an inspiring community leader involved in reconciliation efforts between Confederate and Union neighbors.
In 1907, the first Mother’s Day was celebrated in West Virginia. In 1914 the second Sunday of May was finally declared an official national holiday, “Mother’s Day,” by President Woodrow Wilson. It had taken 34 years, but Julia Howe didn’t live to see it.
Anna did. The day was intended to be spent first in church, and then at home with everyone writing special letters to their moms. In the spirit of Julia Howe, people were to be particularly mindful of mother’s teachings of “charity, mercy, and patience.” People wore red or pink carnations in honor of their moms if their mothers were living, white ones if they had died.
But Anna also lived to see this day, dedicated to peacemaking and world peace, quickly overtaken by commercialism. The greeting card industry jumped in, and Anna was appalled that anyone would buy a Mother’s Day card rather than write a letter themselves. Florists exploited the sentimental symbolism of the carnations, and made a fortune selling more and more every year. By 1924, just 10 years after establishing Mother’s Day as a federal holiday, Anna was so offended by the commercialization which had taken over the Day that she began to petition Congress to abolish it. It was no longer anything close to what it was intended to be. In 1930 she was arrested for disturbing the peace at a Mother’s Day carnation sale. She spent the rest of her life and finances fighting the holiday.
Today, Mother’s Day is one of the most profitable commercial holidays for florists, greeting card publishers, and phone companies. The emphasis on mothers’ roles in peacemaking and world peace has long since vanished.
Anna died in 1948. She had no children.
Sources:
http://www.history.com/
http://www.newsadvance.com/, article by Anne Gibbons, chaplain at Lynchburg University
http://www.chiff.com/
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Saturday, May 8, 2010
Mother's Day Prayer
Remember with your comfort, O Lord, all those for whom Mother’s Day is difficult: single moms with little support, those whose circumstances required that they find another family for their baby, those whose mothers have died since last year, those whose mothers were neither kind nor loving, those who have suffered the death of a child, those whose longings for a child have not yet been fulfilled. Fill their sadness with your love which never disappoints us, never abandons us, and never dies. Amen.
Saturday, February 27, 2010
TEARS ON MY FACE
We baptized and buried her 6-week old baby the same December day. We met at the small cemetery chapel, and walked in toward the tiny casket, set gently on a small table in front. It was a non-denominational -- no, non-religious -- chapel, built of dark stone. No Christian cross, no religious symbols at all, so as not to offend. Cold.
Her face was expressionless as she, her husband, and a few family members numbly sat down. We had all gathered here, in this same comfortless place, barely one year before, to do this same thing for their firstborn son. Baptize, then bury.
I poured the water I had brought from a small plastic bottle into the crystal bowl I removed from my canvas bag. I lit two white candles. Light against the darkness; flame against the cold. There would be no hymns today. No responsive readings. No formal sermon. It was just the six of us, after all, gathered to lay this tiny one to rest. The promises of Jesus, St. John's vision of God wiping our tears away, the Sacrament of Holy Baptism, and a few prayers. Just as we had done a year ago. That was all any of us could manage.
It was good there were so few, as my own emotions kept my voice low and quiet. I grieved as the mother stared blankly at the casket as I performed the ministrations of Word and Sacrament, offering what few words of comfort the Lord gave me.
As I baptized the infant, water and Word ran down his cold face, into his eyes. A baby should object, cry when waters gets in his face. Not a flinch. No reflexive squeeze of his eyes. It was all just so wrong.
Then, the quiet procession to the grave. Everyone wanted to walk. No one wanted to get there any faster than necessary; dreading, preparing themselves for what had to come next. As I read the committal readings and prayers, the young father turned and walked about 25 feet away, his back toward the grave, eyes glaring at heaven. He could not watch. Not a second time. He could not stand there as his second baby son was lowered into the ground next to the first.
"Let us go in peace." The mother leaned down and numbly sprinkled dirt from the mound next to the grave, over her baby's casket. It made a horrible, thudding sound. The men picked up shovels and filled in the grave. Suddenly, the mother emerged from her silence with a wail, and threw herself onto the mounded earth, pounding on it and crying in heaving sobs and groans.
No one tried to stop her. No one could
.
Finally, she tried to stand again. Though a small delicate young woman, it took two people to get her on her feet. It was done. Her aging parents helping her, we began turning to walk back to the chapel and our cars. She stopped, turned, and walked a few steps to me. We hugged, and I held her as she went limp in my warms and wept.
Slowly, laboriously, we made our way to the car. Her family helped her in, then quietly got in themselves, and drove away.
As I stood and gently waved, I felt something cold on my face. I touched my face, and realized it was her tears on my cheek. Sign and symbol of a simple parish pastor.
Her face was expressionless as she, her husband, and a few family members numbly sat down. We had all gathered here, in this same comfortless place, barely one year before, to do this same thing for their firstborn son. Baptize, then bury.
I poured the water I had brought from a small plastic bottle into the crystal bowl I removed from my canvas bag. I lit two white candles. Light against the darkness; flame against the cold. There would be no hymns today. No responsive readings. No formal sermon. It was just the six of us, after all, gathered to lay this tiny one to rest. The promises of Jesus, St. John's vision of God wiping our tears away, the Sacrament of Holy Baptism, and a few prayers. Just as we had done a year ago. That was all any of us could manage.
It was good there were so few, as my own emotions kept my voice low and quiet. I grieved as the mother stared blankly at the casket as I performed the ministrations of Word and Sacrament, offering what few words of comfort the Lord gave me.
As I baptized the infant, water and Word ran down his cold face, into his eyes. A baby should object, cry when waters gets in his face. Not a flinch. No reflexive squeeze of his eyes. It was all just so wrong.
Then, the quiet procession to the grave. Everyone wanted to walk. No one wanted to get there any faster than necessary; dreading, preparing themselves for what had to come next. As I read the committal readings and prayers, the young father turned and walked about 25 feet away, his back toward the grave, eyes glaring at heaven. He could not watch. Not a second time. He could not stand there as his second baby son was lowered into the ground next to the first.
"Let us go in peace." The mother leaned down and numbly sprinkled dirt from the mound next to the grave, over her baby's casket. It made a horrible, thudding sound. The men picked up shovels and filled in the grave. Suddenly, the mother emerged from her silence with a wail, and threw herself onto the mounded earth, pounding on it and crying in heaving sobs and groans.
No one tried to stop her. No one could
.
Finally, she tried to stand again. Though a small delicate young woman, it took two people to get her on her feet. It was done. Her aging parents helping her, we began turning to walk back to the chapel and our cars. She stopped, turned, and walked a few steps to me. We hugged, and I held her as she went limp in my warms and wept.
Slowly, laboriously, we made our way to the car. Her family helped her in, then quietly got in themselves, and drove away.
As I stood and gently waved, I felt something cold on my face. I touched my face, and realized it was her tears on my cheek. Sign and symbol of a simple parish pastor.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
BLOOD RELATIONS - An Easter story at Christmas time
Fog. Drizzle. Incessant gray. December in northwest Ohio. As a passing truck sends one more blinding spray of smudge across my windshield, I pray, "Jesus, you're the only light I have today. This darkness is overcoming me. Be my light which this depressing darkness cannot overcome."
To someone is born this day a baby. The time is not right. It fights for its life in a hospital incubator.
As I drive, I release my dismal spirit to the Lord, and soon feel a quiet peace moving the shadows away. By the time I reach church 45 minutes later to lead my Bible study, I am ready, eager to mine God's Word with the faithful women who attend despite the fog, despite the busy season. Their presence alone blesses me.
To someone is born this day a baby...
Later, as I drive another hour back through the fog to Toledo to keep an appointment with the Red Cross, I recall the woman who called asking me to donate blood this week saying something about "preemies." I make a mental note to ask the receptionist what that means.
Through the drizzle and holiday traffic, I finally arrive at the appointed place. I am ready for the procedure, looking forward to the few quiet moments of rest I will be given as my blood slowly fills the pint bag. I am always struck by the miracle of being able to give of my life without actually giving my life in order to help someone else.
To someone is born this day a baby...
As the receptionist takes the required information, I remember to ask my question. "The woman who called me said something about preemies. What did she mean?"
"When we tested your blood last time you gave, we discovered you are CMV-negative."
"What does that mean?"
"CMV is a kind of virus most adults have in their blood which, if active, produces flu-like symptoms in adults. They may have picked it up from another person, or even from handling dirt, or by getting sick themselves. We have to screen those because if CMV-positive blood is given to premature babies, whose immune systerms are not working yet, it could be fatal. When we find someone like you, who is CMV-negative, in addition to being O-negative, making you a universal donor, well, you can probably expect to be called pretty regularly to donate for the preemies from now on!"
To someone is born this day a baby...
Awe gripped my heart. I sat in stunned silence for a moment, taking in what she had told me. "I'll share something very personal with you," I said after a time. "My husband and I struggled for 10 years trying to have a baby. For reasons medical science could never explain, we only seemed able to have miscarriages. Both sides of our families have been 'fruitful and multiplied,' but not us, and for no clear reason. Now you are telling me there is something rare about my blood that can save the lives of premature babies -- after all those years of trying to give life..." My throat closed, tears welled as four of us -- two receptionists, another donor, and myself, let the miracle wash over us.
To someone is born this day a baby. The time is not right. It fights for its life in a hospital incubator. Its parents wait the agonizing wait of helpless love and passionate hope. The baby, dearly loved of God, is desperately sick. She needs blood.
As I lay on the table giving my blood, blood which will bear life and power for a premature baby eagerly loved by her parents and by her God, I am facing a window. I stare out into the fog and drizzle, and tears of awe and joy sweep over me again.
And I swear I hear the voice of a single angel whispering, "To you is born this day a baby..."
To someone is born this day a baby. The time is not right. It fights for its life in a hospital incubator.
As I drive, I release my dismal spirit to the Lord, and soon feel a quiet peace moving the shadows away. By the time I reach church 45 minutes later to lead my Bible study, I am ready, eager to mine God's Word with the faithful women who attend despite the fog, despite the busy season. Their presence alone blesses me.
To someone is born this day a baby...
Later, as I drive another hour back through the fog to Toledo to keep an appointment with the Red Cross, I recall the woman who called asking me to donate blood this week saying something about "preemies." I make a mental note to ask the receptionist what that means.
Through the drizzle and holiday traffic, I finally arrive at the appointed place. I am ready for the procedure, looking forward to the few quiet moments of rest I will be given as my blood slowly fills the pint bag. I am always struck by the miracle of being able to give of my life without actually giving my life in order to help someone else.
To someone is born this day a baby...
As the receptionist takes the required information, I remember to ask my question. "The woman who called me said something about preemies. What did she mean?"
"When we tested your blood last time you gave, we discovered you are CMV-negative."
"What does that mean?"
"CMV is a kind of virus most adults have in their blood which, if active, produces flu-like symptoms in adults. They may have picked it up from another person, or even from handling dirt, or by getting sick themselves. We have to screen those because if CMV-positive blood is given to premature babies, whose immune systerms are not working yet, it could be fatal. When we find someone like you, who is CMV-negative, in addition to being O-negative, making you a universal donor, well, you can probably expect to be called pretty regularly to donate for the preemies from now on!"
To someone is born this day a baby...
Awe gripped my heart. I sat in stunned silence for a moment, taking in what she had told me. "I'll share something very personal with you," I said after a time. "My husband and I struggled for 10 years trying to have a baby. For reasons medical science could never explain, we only seemed able to have miscarriages. Both sides of our families have been 'fruitful and multiplied,' but not us, and for no clear reason. Now you are telling me there is something rare about my blood that can save the lives of premature babies -- after all those years of trying to give life..." My throat closed, tears welled as four of us -- two receptionists, another donor, and myself, let the miracle wash over us.
To someone is born this day a baby. The time is not right. It fights for its life in a hospital incubator. Its parents wait the agonizing wait of helpless love and passionate hope. The baby, dearly loved of God, is desperately sick. She needs blood.
As I lay on the table giving my blood, blood which will bear life and power for a premature baby eagerly loved by her parents and by her God, I am facing a window. I stare out into the fog and drizzle, and tears of awe and joy sweep over me again.
And I swear I hear the voice of a single angel whispering, "To you is born this day a baby..."
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