The ad in the magazine looked inviting!  A Victorian doll for $4.98.  I’d seen the ad before.  She was dressed like a lady with a straw-rimmed hat.  It made me think of my mother.  Mother’s weakness for dolls was not new.  I could not remember a Christmas when she didn’t dress a doll for someone.  She stitched and sewed and took delight in creating every detail.  Then she filled its heart with love for some deserving soul.  Mother handed me the ad.  “Look, Sissy,” she said, “isn’t she sweet?  And she’s 17 inches tall.”  Her eyes sparkled with encouragement.  The day had been for Christmas plans but Mom had a plan of her own.  I smiled to myself!

“Is this what you want for Christmas?” I asked.  It didn’t seem like much.  I thought of the beautiful dolls downtown.  They were wonderfully dressed and very expensive–a much more suitable gift.  But Mother insisted she wanted that particular doll.  I could see my persuasion would not prevail.  I agreed to order the doll.  When the box arrived, I was skeptical.  It was packed in two outer cartons that didn’t look large enough to hold a doll.  I unpacked the contents.  The item had definitely been folded, stapled and mutilated.  Taiwan and Japan had never seen anything like this!  It was of very poor quality and had been badly damaged in shipment.  What a disappointment!

I laid the doll on the dining room table.  All day I glanced back and forth at the doll as I went about my housework.  It looked like a waif or an orphan.  My mother’s Christmas gift!  What would I do?  I thought about the alternatives.  I could throw it in the trash or return it to the sender and demand my money back–plus shipping and handling.  I could call the Better Business Bureau.  It was certainly not like the advertisement.  I thought and thought and thought.  God must have a purpose in giving it to me.  I finally called my mother.  She would be coming to town for Christmas.  She bubbled with enthusiasm.  She was looking forward to this doll. . .what could I possibly say?

“Mother,” I began, “your DOLL arrived, and I think she’s awfully lucky to have a mother like you. . .”  I went on to explain that the doll had a few things wrong with her–her right leg was broken just below the knee–her little “china” leg.  But not beyond repair.  I thought it could be glued.  Then, the whole left side of her chest was caved in.  She’d need a little stuffing in about half of her body.  Her hair was matted and ugly.  A comb and some ribbons would do.  And her hat was smashed beyond repair.  Why, she’d need a brand new hat.  The dress could use a little trim–perhaps some lace on the faded gauze would change her whole appearance.  I waited for a response.  “Oh, Sissy!” she said willingly.  “I can make her a hat.  We’ll make her a brand new hat.  And we’ll glue her leg and sew a dress and I can fix her hair.”  Her voice was all aglow.  In a few short sentences, the Victorian doll was adopted, restored and greatly loved.  My eyes filled with tears as I hung up the phone.

“Oh, God,” I cried.  “Teach me to love with that kind of love, the kind of love that You would have; to see value and worth in common things; to restore and to touch and revive things in this world for You.”

This is a true story that I wrote nearly 30 years ago about my dear mother who is now 86 years old and still teaching me what is important in life today.  She is God’s person through and through.  Thank You, LORD, for a godly mother who lives her life for You.