It’s just a small book—a daily devotional entitled “Daily Strengths For Daily Needs.” It’s the only thing I got of my Mother’s when she died. It has gotten plenty of use over the years—and it shows it.

The cover has a washed-out green color and it’s ragged due to age and overuse. The title is faded and barely readable; the binding is broken and has come unglued; its pages now a dull yellow and loosely held together. In other words, it’s in perfect condition!  I would fight you to the death if you tried to repair it.

The inscription on the first page reads: “Evelyn Rogers (my Mother), March 4, 1926, from ‘Mother’ (my Grandmother).” It was first published in 1884. There are numerous extraneous little items stored in this beloved little book. There are various newspaper clippings (when gasoline was 19 cents a gallon); obituary notices of relatives I never met; cards from friends and love-ones; an entry form to a literary contest; and a copy of the following poem, which should give you a little insight into who my Mother was and where she placed her values.

To understand the priceless nature of this little book, you have to know a little more about my Mother. She was a Saint—but, then again, what mother isn’t. She was my “Rock” and my “Whole World.”

Our family was not rich. Mother grew up in the small rural community of Dry Branch, Georgia, which is appropriately located in Twiggs County, about twenty miles south of Macon. To this day, Twiggs County is the only county in Georgia without a traffic light.

I don’t know much about Mother’s childhood, but I do know she was driven. She was the only one in our family to graduate from college until she instilled that drive in me. She became a first-grade schoolteacher. She dearly loved her profession for every one of the twenty years she spent affecting those little lives until her sudden and untimely death. I think she found solace in her teaching since she struggled greatly in her personal life.

I’m the sixth of six children (four brothers and two sisters). I don’t remember our father ever living with us. He was an alcoholic and he and Mother separated when I was very young, before my memory kicked in. He never supported us financially (or fatherly).

Mother took care of us children, my grandmother and, at times, two uncles and a first cousin on a meager schoolteacher’s salary. She got paid at the first of the month and by the end of the month, things would get a little scarce. I remember having grits for breakfast, grits for lunch and grits for supper one time. It wasn’t so bad—I like grits, but it would’ve been nice to have a little salt in them, which we didn’t have. Sometimes Mother would come and ask me if we could make our two portions of a particular meal a little smaller so we would have enough food for everyone. She made me feel as though I were the savior of the world!

Despite all her financial, parental and personal problems with my father, Mother was this beautiful and loving force around which we all revolved. I never thought about not having a dad. Mother was everything to me. She was more than just a mother—she was larger than life. She was overflowing with love, not just for us but everyone. She was kind, she had a gentle spirit, she appeared happy even during the times it now seems impossible that she could have been. I only heard Mother crying once—when my Grandmother, whom we called “Mama,” died; and she went out on the front porch so we wouldn’t see her not being strong.

She was selfless and generous to a fault. She always gave more than she had—even when she didn’t have anything to give. She gave of herself. She never took. She never applied for welfare, although I’m sure we qualified, and she never accepted charity from anyone—not even the church. She never demanded alimony or child support from my father and he never paid any.

On her birthday a year before she died, my older sister Wynelle, who got a job as a bookkeeper in a local bank, bought her three new dresses. They were the only new things I ever saw Mother get just for herself. My sister tried to get her a pair of shoes too, but Mother said no—that was just too much.