She lived just outside a tiny town in the Deep South, where her nine children were born. She and Papa, still young then, and their brood worked the farm, moving with the seasons year to year. The bright, hot sun and the nighttime stars came and went as they always had. But there were other stars now, five of them, in the front parlor window of the farmhouse, one for each of her sons. They were in far off places, Guadalcanal and Normandy and the Ardennes Forest. She did her part, rationing and donating, but those weren’t her true gifts to the war effort. She gave her heart and soul, the boys she loved best in the world. She waited four long years before they came home, some wounded, all battle-scarred, but home all the same. Heroism is a strange thing – it is sometimes found in the silent cry of a mother’s heart.
To mothers everywhere, with great respect. They also serve who stand and wait.
