Who Loves You More Than Mom?

Introduction:

This is a classic Mother’s Day Calvin & Hobbes comic strip. Calvin is standing by his mother’s bed. "Hey, Mom! Wake up. I made you a Mother’s Day card." "My, how sweet of you." she says. "I did it all by myself. Go ahead & read it."

She begins to read, "I was going to buy a card with hearts of pink & red. But then I thought I’d rather spend the money on me instead. It’s awfully hard to buy things when one’s allowance is so small. So I guess you’re pretty lucky I got you anything at all. Happy Mother’s Day. There, I’ve said it. Now I’m done. So how about getting out of bed & fixing breakfast for your son." Signed, "Calvin."

"I’m deeply moved,” said his mother. "Did you notice the part about my allowance?" He asked.

Only a Mom could love a son like Calvin.

Although a mother’s love is legendary, recent news items have shaken us with the images of mothers gone terribly wrong. One mom in White Plains, NY left her two bickering daughters on the side of the road

The most horrific true crime stories are those in which a mother harms her child, instead of offering love and protection. In fact, they are so shocking, stories of mothers murdering or making their children ill, capture our attention.

“Parental hazard carries no gender distinction: Mothers kill their children with nearly the same frequency as fathers. From 1976 to 1999, 30 percent of murdered children under 5 were killed by their mothers and 31 percent by their fathers, according to the U.S. Department of Justice.”

Citation: Toufexis, Anastasia, “WHY JENNIFER GOT SICK” Time.com, Monday, Apr. 29, 1996, November 15, 2007 – cited by lisaj66 and posted on November 15, 2007 at 10:10 pm. (http://fictionway.com/2007/11/15/murdering-moms/)

Who loves you more than Mom?

A teacher was trying to teach her class a lesson about fractions. After the lesson, she tested one of the boys who was in a large family. Johnny, she said, “There are 6 people in your family. Your mom bakes a pie and she cuts it up for you, what fraction of the pie will you receive?”

Johnny, thought for a minute and said, “One-fifth.” The teacher said, “Now, remember there are 6 people in your family, how big would your piece of pie be.” And again, the boy said, “One-fifth.” The teacher said, “No, you don’t understand fractions.” And Johnny respectfully said, “You don’t understand my mom. She would have said that she didn’t want any.”

Who loves you more than Mom?

Frederick Douglass grew up as a slave in Maryland in the early nineteenth century. He escaped and became one of the century’s leading abolitionists, who fought to end slavery forever. He writes in Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass, an American Slave about being torn away from his mother’s love:

My mother and I were separated when I was but an infant—before I knew her as my mother. It is a common custom, in the part of Maryland from which I ran away, to part children from their mothers at a very early age. She was hired by a Mr. Stewart, who lived about 12 miles from my home.

Nonetheless, young Frederick’s mother several times found ways to see her son:

She made her journeys to see me in the night, traveling the whole distance on foot, after the performance of her day’s work. She was a field hand, and a whipping was the penalty of not being in the field at sunrise…. She was with me in the night. She would lie down with me and get me to sleep, but long before I waked she was gone.

How amazing is the power of a mother’s love. Frederick Douglass’s mother worked all day long in the scorching heat of the tobacco fields, and then, when her body was crying for rest, she walked 12 miles in the dark to see her son. After comforting him and holding him as he fell asleep, she had to walk another 12 miles back. She gave up a night’s sleep. She risked getting a severe whipping if she were discovered, or if she got home late. But nothing could keep this mother from her son.

Citation: Kevin Miller, Vice President, Resources, Christianity Today International

Who loves you more than Mom?

Len Sweet in Postmodern Pilgrims recounts a letter a physician wrote to a church-related magazine:

Today I visited an eight-year-old girl dying of cancer. Her disease and its treatment disfigured her body. She was in almost constant pain. As I entered her room, I was overcome immediately by her suffering—so unjust, unfair, unreasonable. Even more overpowering was the presence of her grandmother lying in bed beside her with her huge body embracing this precious, inhuman suffering.