The Pittsburgh Press (December 24, 1943)
Ferguson: Mother of Bethlehem
By Mrs. Walter Ferguson
Long, long ago, Mary journeyed to Bethlehem. There was no room at the Inn. Her newborn son was cradled in a manger.
The Christmas season brings back the details of that ancient lovely story. Today thousands of mothers must think of Mary as they too cradle their newborn sons in strange and humble places. No matter how far from home the paths may lie, there lives forever in the hearts of women the desire to follow their man, and so America’s war brides are closer to the Mother of Jesus than any other generation, if experience means understanding.
Gentle Mary, who saw the star and heard the Angels’ voices, knew her hour of joy. Before her stretched years of sorrow, brought to their final frightful climax at Golgotha. On that day long ago, as she kept watch at the crucifixion of her son, perhaps she sensed that repeatedly, through the ages, women would partake of her bitter cup. It may be so. Certainly, all over the earth now women taste the fear, the grief, the horror. They give up their sons as a sacrifice for causes which seem to them scared. In war, women’s is the hardest part, just as it must have been easier for Jesus to die upon the Cross than for His Mother to stand and watch Him die. Unworthy as we are, we are united in sorrow with the Mother of Sorrows.
Families are scattered this Christmas. Empty chairs will stand at many tables. Our world is a world of apprehension and confusion.
In such a universe, Christmas can only be a yearning in the hearts of humankind. There is no peace on earth. There is only the hope of it which lives within us still, as remote as the Angels’ voices, but shining yet, clear as the Christmas star.