Flesh and Blood Memorial
By Elise Mertens
M OTHER,” I whispered over the teacups, “If God should ever take you before He does me, I want to be a flesh and blood memorial to you.” I wondered at my own unexpected avowal. Nothing had prompted it except a tremendous realization that I adored the beautiful utterly unselfish character across the table from me. Mother was only a bit past fifty, but an inexplicable fear shot suddenly through my heart that some day I might lose her. Youthfully impulsive, I pledged my love in the greatest tribute I could con ceive. Her eyes lighted, and she smiled “ Thank you” in loving understanding and appreciation. Together we dreamed over happy plans that we envisioned for future days when we would serve the Lord in some special way. Mother had always wanted to be a missionary, but rearing a large family had created quite a different career. And so devotion to others and to her Lord, who was more real to her than even the very breath she drew, constituted her whole life. A few days later, after our conver sation at the table, I stood in the same room at the opeh French doors, looking up into the blue of a cloud-flecked sky. Mother was gone! God had called her in sweet surprise to join Him in a more wonderful service in another life. She had only been sick two days. Stunned and heartbroken, I leaned wearily against the door. God comforted my solitude with , promises that He would never leave me alone, that His Presence would go with me through the hard days and years ahead. Now I had to try to take her place in the home, to help bear the burdens of the little family, keep the home cheery and bright, and the lights of faith, hope, and love shining as she had throughout the years. Yes, work on the memorial would have to begin! The weeks and months passed. One day I planted a rose tree at the head of her grave, for I found it impossible to scrape together the necessary amount to buy even a modest stone. That would have to come later. Until then, the roses that she loved so well would bloom, and the work on the flesh and blood memo rial could continue. But the latter was such slow progress. In fact, it didn’t seem as if anything was being accomplished. The days were spent working to help keep a roof over our heads and food in our mouths. All the spare time between of necessity was
filled with household chores, for now I had to do them alone. There was no time left for performing beautiful services to mankind. Some day, perhaps, I could do something wonderful!
work and girls won for Christ, lives surrendered and consecrated to His service, missionaries aided and sent forth to the field, Bibles distributed, and so on. The girls enthusiastically caught the vision. From year to year there was great rejoicing when the trophy was triumphantly carried home by one of the thirty or more clubs, with its name and the date engraved on the base. Quiet joy filled my heart, for though I was unable to be or do anything of myself, still I could see the results in countless other lives. Then there was the added thrill of knowing that the circle of influence was unending—it even lapped foreign shores! At last the rose tree was replaced by beautifully-engraved granite. As I stood looking down upon it, I breathed a prayer for the Memorial Cup that represented the lives of so many girls, and then for the flesh and blood me morial that never seemed to be materi alizing. A feeling of dissatisfaction en veloped me. Something was lacking, but what? I had so longed that some day I could be a perfect memorial, and yet it wasn’t turning out that way! Then suddenly I knew! I remembered Mother’s favorite verse, Galatians 2:20: “I am crucified with Christ; neverthe less I live, yet not I, but Christ liveth in me.” I must be a flesh and blood memorial not to her, but to Christ! “ Ye are living stones”—I saw it now! I was to be a “marked memorial” to Him, even as the bondslave had his ear pierced as evidence of his voluntary life devotion and servitude to his mas ter. That was right—Christ had no other memorial than those who bore His Name engraved on their hearts, and His Image stamped upon their lives. The imme diacy of the vision got hold of me. The memorial must be beautiful—“ Not I, but Christ!” It must be fitting—“ a liv ing sacrifice” . It must be lasting— “ Christ shall be magnified in my body by life or by death, for to me to live is Christ!” Work must now begin on the greatest of all memorials! Once again beneath the blue, with glad and eager heart love brought a tribute to the One whose Name is above every name—King of kings and Lord of lords, the One Altogether Lovely! Though all unworthy, it was all that I had. In simple trust and abandonment of devotion I laid the trophy at His feet. “ Lord Jesus Christ—I am Thy me morial!”
Missionary and Evangelism Trophy At last I concluded that if I could instill into multiple lives the same faith and devotion to Christ, and the vision and call of missions that mother had bequeathed to me, that would be a more fitting memorial than a single life. After all, what was the value of one life in comparison with scores of others? Squeezing my work schedule into as limited a space as possible, I sought out girls who were otherwise unreached with Christian fellowship, and organ ized them into Bible Clubs. There I tried to win them to Christ and to His call for their lives. Still, my contact was so small. The harvest was so great and the laborers were so few! Then one day God won derfully showed me a plan. However, the secret was shared with only the director of a large group of Bible Clubs. So I scrimped and saved and at last was able to lay $18.00 down on the counter in exchange for a beautifully- engraved bronze trophy, a lasting trib ute to my precious mother! On Memorial Day at the annual con ference of the clubs, it was presented as a perpetual trophy to be won each year by the club that achieved the high est endeavors in evangelism and mis sions. This would represent personal
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