She and her growing family lived in a two-room shack painted white, which sat directly behind a mechanic shop on the South side of their small town. They had four children, six and under, with one on the way. They were traveling back home from getting groceries at the local Winn-Dixie.
She carefully maneuvered their eleven-year-old 1957 Ford Fairlane Country Squire Station Wagon around the potholes in the road leading to their little dwelling. It was busy as usual at the little auto shop. Heads turned as the car rattled by.
Her husband was across the ocean fighting a war. She was left alone to care for these little ones on her own. Sometimes her mom and sister would lend a hand. But for the most part, she was carrying the load all by herself. It had been hard. Sometimes, her life felt kind of like driving that station wagon across those potholes — bumpy and jolting.
The oldest girl helped carry the groceries in while she put the younger three down for a nap. It took some doing, but usually, a pacifier or bottle of milk would be the thing to help them fall asleep.
An hour later, the children were finally down after rocking and walking and being as quiet as possible. She tiptoed to the door, gently pried it open, and softly closed it once she was on the other side. She noticed the oldest girl still wasn’t finished with the groceries. She went to help.
There were days she didn’t know if she could make it. She sometimes wondered if her sanity was still intact. But then she thought that someone whose sanity was gone wouldn’t have the presence of mind to care.
She missed her husband. In addition to taking care of the children, she was busy worrying about him. She wondered if he was still alive. His last letter had arrived a week and a half ago. She trusted God would keep him safe, but there was always the possibility that God had other plans for their lives. She breathed another prayer for him.
After they finished putting everything away, they sat on their worn-out, art deco sofa from the previous decade with more than its fair share of holes. She pulled her daughter in close and started humming.
A few seconds later, her daughter asked, “Whatcha hummin’ momma?”
She looked down at her daughter. She hadn’t given it any thought. She had started humming without even realizing it. “Um, it’s a song I heard several years ago,” she replied. “I liked it so much, I never forgot it.”
“It sounds pretty, momma. What are the words to it?”
She started singing the lyrics softly, careful not to wake the babies in the other room.
“I’m satisfied with just a cottage below
A little silver and a little gold”
She stopped. She wasn’t sure she could classify their tiny home as a cottage. It was more of a shack. At times, she was not satisfied with it. And she sure didn’t have any silver or gold, not even a little. Just enough to pay the bills. Her eyes got a little misty. Her voice quivered.
“But in that city where the ransomed will shine
I want a gold one that’s silver lined”
The mist materialized into big water droplets, which seeped out the corners of her eyes as she continued singing.
“I’ve got a mansion just over the hilltop
In that bright land where we’ll never grow old
And someday yonder we will never more wander
But walk on streets that are the purest gold.”
She realized that most of the time, they were without two pennies to rub together. She kept a clean home, but this house was not in its prime. There were cracks in the walls, the house was drafty, and the creaky wooden floors were sagging in two or three areas. They didn’t have the luxuries that many others had. She didn’t have a new dress. Hers were several years old. All of her family’s clothes had been worn by others for years before they received them. They were second or third in line for these hand-me-downs. But at least they had some. And they had all the necessities.
“Don’t think me poor or deserted or lonely
I’m not discouraged; I’m heaven bound!”
The tears kept flowing.
“I’m but a pilgrim in search of the city
I want a mansion, a harp, and a crown!”
“I’ve got a mansion just over the hilltop,
In that bright land where we’ll never grow old;
And someday yonder we will never more wander,
But walk the streets that are purest gold.”
She sang the chorus a couple more times. She looked through blurry eyes down at her oldest daughter; she was asleep. She knew no fear or dread. She only knew that she was in the arms of her momma. She was at peace.
She laid her head back on the sofa, looked up at the ceiling, and wiped her face with her arm. A few more tears escaped.
She needed that song today. She needed to let her tears do her praying while she sang that hymn. No matter what lay ahead, she knew she had hope — a promise.
One of these days, she’d have a mansion.
to those rejoicing in hope,
– Caleb
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