Patiently she justifies this neglect with words that are heard but do not convince or excuse: ‘They are all so busy.’”
Carroll: her family never telephones, never writes, never visits. It is read, then reread, then saved as a precious piece of treasure. Each Wednesday there is a letter in her hands from her son in New York. Her daughter visits her every week, right at 3:00 P.M. From the hallway where we stood, she pointed to several elderly women assembled in a peaceful living room. I recall talking to the proprietress of a nursing home. Whenever we fall, whenever we do less than we ought, in a very real way we forget mother. There are yet other ways we forget mother. How does such a mother feel when her neighbor welcomes gladly the smile of a son, the hug of a daughter, the glad exclamation of a child, “Hello, Grandmother!” Can we not appreciate the pangs of loneliness, the yearnings of a mother’s heart, when hour after hour, alone in her age, she gazes out the window for the loved one who does not visit, the letter the postman does not bring? She listens for the knock that does not sound, the telephone that does not ring, the voice she does not hear. The nursing homes are crowded, the hospital beds are full, the days come and go-often the weeks and months pass-but mother is not visited. “Mother forgotten” is observed all too frequently. Four mothers come to mind: first, mother forgotten second, mother remembered third, mother blessed and finally, mother loved. Who can measure a mother’s grief? Who can probe a mother’s love? Who can comprehend in its entirety the lofty role of a mother? With perfect trust in God, she walks, her hand in His, into the valley of the shadow of death, that you and I might come forth into light. There came to mind the grief-stricken mother of each fallen man as she held in her hand the news of her precious son’s supreme sacrifice. My thoughts turned from those who bravely served and gallantly died. I contemplated the high price of liberty and the costly sacrifice many had been called upon to bear. As my eyes filled with tears, my heart swelled with pride. As I let my eyes pass name by name along the many colonnades of honor, tears came easily and without embarrassment.
Situated amidst the carefully mowed grass, acre upon acre, were markers identifying men, mostly young, who in battle gave their lives. A spirit of reverence filled the warm tropical air. One summer day I stood alone in the quiet of the American War Memorial Cemetery of the Philippines.
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