The Measure of My Mother

We didn’t have what others had,
Our world was small and worn.
We learned too young what whispered words
And judging eyes could form.



We all learned to hold each other’s hands,
That’s simply how love grew.
When one heart bent beneath the load,
The others carried too.



Momma’s hands were soft to hold,
Though life had left its scars.
Like prayers that echoed through the nights,
Stories never told.



She never measured life by things,
Or all we lacked to own.
She smiled when Heaven filled our need,
In ways we’d never known.



A sack of potatoes at the door,
When cupboards had run dry.
No one knew… but God above,
And tears in Momma’s eyes.



She’d laugh as if the King Himself
Had stopped to call that day.
His mercy wasn’t something preached…
She watched Him make a way.



She wasn’t perfect—none of us.
She’d tell us when we were wrong.
Yet every truth she placed within
Was wrapped in grace that made us strong.



The years would bring both joy and tears,
And seasons we’d withstand.
We didn’t always see alike,
Yet it didn’t matter when Momma took my hand.