“To Eve—with Empathy across the Years,” Ensign, July 1992, 49
You laid the garment aside
And stood to rest stiff shoulders—
How pleased Abel would be
At touch of the soft, supple leather.
From the door you could see the fields,
Quiet in midday sun.
The harvest had been good
And the flocks were fat.
Bent to your task again
You were not aware of the darkening sky
Or the dust-covered runner approaching
Until Adam, with ashen face, stood beside you.
Sharp as the sickle through ripe grain
Were his words …
You would not remember
Running through dry stubble,
Or his strong arms beneath yours;
But you would not forget pain
That tore heart and soul.
Gone—two sons of promise—
One never to see tomorrow’s dawn,
Never to father generations.
The other wrenched from you,
Marked and cast out.
There would be other dawns—and other harvests—
With long hours of toil to fill empty days.
Then slowly, surely, as pain gives way to faith,
You feel God’s love surround you,
Warm as a shawl on your shoulders,
And you hear His spirit whisper to your spirit
That sometime—somewhere in eternity—
A mother’s heart will heal.