Summary: Mark 3:33 And he answered them, saying, Who is my mother,? John 19:27 Then saith he to the disciple, Behold thy mother!
Mark 3:33 And he answered them, saying, Who is my mother,?
John 19:27 Then saith he to the disciple, Behold thy mother!
Behold, Thy Mother…. The story goes as like this. A true story.
My Mother had difficulties giving birth to me and as a result,
she went to be with Jesus. Growing up without a Mother was hard until one day I got an enlightening revelation. When I was quite young, my father had one of the first telephones in our area.
I remember well, the polished old case, fastened to the wall.
The shiny receiver hung on the side of the box. I was too little to reach the phone, but used to listen with fascination when my Dad would talk to it. Then I discovered that somewhere inside that wonderful device, lived an amazing person, and her name was "Information" there was nothing she didn’t know. "Information" could supply anybody's number and the correct time.
My first personal experience with this great lady came one day while my Dad was visiting a neighbor. Amusing myself at the tool bench in the basement, I whacked my finger with a hammer.
The pain was terrible, but there didn't seem to be any reason
in crying because there was no one home to give any sympathy.
I walked around the house holding my throbbing little finger,
and when I got to the stairway I saw the telephone! Quickly,
I ran for the footstool and dragged it to the phone. Climbing up,
I unhooked the receiver and held it to my ear. "Information Please," After a click or two a small clear voice spoke into my ear. "Information." "I hurt my finger. . ." I cried into the phone.
The tears came readily enough now that I had an audience.
"Isn't you’re Mother home?" came the question. "Nobody's home but me," Besides, as I cried harder, “I don’t have a Mother”.
"Are you bleeding?" "No," I replied. "I hit my finger with the hammer and it hurts." "Can you open your icebox?" she asked.
I said I could. "Then chip off a little piece of ice and hold it to your finger," she said. After that, I called "Information" for everything.
I asked her for help with my geography and she told me where Philadelphia was. She helped me with my math. She told me my pet chipmunk would eat fruits and nuts. Then, there was the time our pet canary died. I called "Information" and told her the sad story. She listened, and then said the usual things grown-ups say to soothe a child. But I was not consoled. I asked her, "Why is it that birds should sing so beautifully and bring so much joy, only to end up as a heap of feathers on the bottom of a cage?" She must have sensed my deep concern, for she said quietly, "Paul, always remember that there is a Heaven for birds to sing in." That made me feel better.
Another day I was on the telephone. "Information Please." "Information," answered in the now familiar voice. "How do you spell fix?" “Information” was always there for me.
All this took place in a small town in the Northwest. When I was older, we moved across country to Boston. I missed "Information", so much. As I grew into my teens, the memories of those childhood conversations never really left me. Often, in moments of doubt and perplexity I would recall the serene sense of security I had then.