"Why are you crying?" a little boy asked his Mother.

"Because I'm a Mother," she told him.

"I don't understand," he said.

His mom just hugged him tightly and said, "You never will!"

Later the boy asked his father why Mother seemed to cry for no reason.

"All mothers cry for no reason," was all his Dad could say.

The little boy grew up and became a man, still wondering why mothers cry. So he finally put in a call to God.

When he got God on the phone the man asked, "God, why do mothers cry so easily?"

God said, "You see, when I made mothers, they had to be special. I made their shoulders strong enough to carry the weight of the world, yet gentle enough to give comfort.
I gave them an inner strength to endure childbirth and the rejection that many times come from their children."

"I gave them a hardiness that allows them to keep going when everyone else gives up, and to take care of their families through sickness and fatigue without complaining."

"I gave them the sensitivity to love their children under all circumstances, even when their child has hurt them very badly. This same sensitivity helps them to make a child's boo-boo feel better, and helps them share a teenagers anxieties and fears."

"I gave them a tear to shed. It's theirs exclusively to use whenever it's needed. It's their only weakness. It's a tear for mankind.

Somebody's Mother

The woman was old and ragged and gray,
And bent with the chill of a winter's day;
The streets were white with a recent snow,
And the woman's feet with age were slow.

At the crowded crossing she waited long,
Jostled aside by the careless throng
Of human beings who passed her by,
Unheeding the glance of her anxious eye.

Down the street with laughter and shout,
Glad in the freedom of 'school let out,'
Come happy boys, like a flock of sheep,
Hailing the snow piled white and deep;
Past the woman, so old and gray,
Hastened the children on their way.

None offered a helping hand to her,
So weak and timid, afraid to stir,
Lest the carriage wheels or the horses feet
Should trample her down in the slippery street.

At last came out a merry troop
The gayest boy of all the group;
He paused beside her and whispered low,
'I'll help you cross, if you wish to go.'

Her aged hand on his strong young arm
She placed, and so without hurt or harm
he guided the trembling feet along,
Proud that his own were young and strong;
Then back again to his friends he went,
His young heart happy and well content.

'She's somebody's mother, boys, you know,
For all she's aged, and poor and slow;
And some one, some time, may lend a hand
To help my mother- you understand?-
If ever she's old and poor and gray,
And her own dear boy so far away.'

'Somebody's mother' bowed low her head
In her home that night, and the prayer she said
Was: 'God be kind to that noble boy,
Who is somebody's son and pride and joy.