A Song from Heaven     In the last months of my mother's life, she would slip in and out of a world known only to her. When she was in "Her World," we would all try to reach her, to try and draw her back to us. But we had no control. So we lived for the clear days, when she was in "Our World."     On one of those clear days, my mother drew me to her bedside and looking into my face she said, "Mom came to me yesterday."     I can tell you I was not prepared for the words my mother spoke, but as she told me of the visit, I listened, daring not to speak.     "Mom was trying to teach me something, she said. "It was like a dream, but more real. I understood clearly what she was saying." Mother paused; then looked deeply into my eyes. "Mom sang an old song that she used to sing while she went about her work in the kitchen. I had forgotten that song. I wish I had the words."     I caught my breath; then asked, "What was the name of the song?"     She didn't know the name, but she sang me the chorus, struggling to recall the words:                                                                                                    "Far away, beyond the star-lit skies,                                                   Where the love light never, never, dies,                                                   Gleameth a mansion filled with delight,                                                            Sweet happy home so bright."     I sensed the importance of the song to my mother and hung on every word. Before I left that day, I promised to look for the words. I knew it would be a difficult task; I didn't have the title, and it was a very old song.     My mother's birthday was fast approaching, and I knew that song would be the perfect gift. I had searched for weeks with no luck. One day, as I listened to a "swap-n-shop" radio show, I decided to appeal to the good people in Arkansas. I called in and told them about my mother's desire and gave them what I had of the song lyrics. I offered to pay whatever was fair and left my number.     I hung up thinking nothing much would come of the effort. I was wrong. By the next afternoon, I not only had the words to "Twilight Is Falling," I had the music and a tape. A lovely Christian family made it for me. They filled the rest of the tape with more beautiful gospel songs, all about mothers. Not one of those wonderful people would take a dime for the time or money spent.     Oh what a birthday that was. I popped the tape into my mother's player and watched as her face flooded with tears of joy. My mother played her song so much that, before long, we both had it committed to memory. I had no way of knowing what an important role that song would play, in the months to come.     Soon, my mother slipped back into "Her World," and nothing we could do would draw her back to ours. We knew the end was near.     Before her health failed, Mother had crocheted each of her children a beautiful afghan-except for my younger sister. I recall her asking me what colors she should use to make Donna's afghan. I told her I'd find out, but when Mother became ill, we forgot about the afghan . . . all that is, except Mother.     There in her hospital bed, away in her world, she would sit for hours, working in a strained position on an imaginary afghan. I tried in vain to pull her back to us. I begged her to lay down her "yarn" and rest, but she would take on that determined look that I knew so well, pull away, and continue working.     One November day, as I watched her work with her imaginary crochet hook, I decided to go to Mother instead of trying to pull her back to me. I admired her afghan and the pretty colors. She smiled! She had "heard" me.     I ask her who the afghan was for; responding in broken speech, she said, "My girl."     I promised her, when she finished, I'd make sure that Donna received her beautiful afghan. Then I started to sing her song, "Twilight is stealing . . . "     An amazing thing happened. Mother stopped crocheting and began to sing. She only hit every other word or so, but oh those words were precious to me.     As I started to sing the chorus, I became aware of a bird's trilling outside the window. I walked toward the sound of the bird as I sang, and there, perched on the cement ledge of the fourth-floor window, was a red-and brown finch, singing his heart out!     What a sight we were that day. Mother, and I, and that little bird, singing at the top of our lungs!     One month later, as we listened to the tape at Mother's funeral, I could almost hear her . . . singing along.     I will always believe that God sent Mother ,and I that song. As for the little bird . . . well . . . he must have been an angel, sent to put a song in our hearts at a time when we needed it the most.                                                                                                                    Barbara (Bobby) Smith

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Twilight is Falling

Twilight is stealing over the sea, Shadows are falling dark on the lea,                       Borne on the night-winds voices of yore, Come from the far-off shore.                                                                         Chorus                       Far away beyond the star-lit skies, Where the love-light never, never, dies.                       Gleameth a mansion filled with delight, Sweet happy home so bright.                       Voices of loved ones! Songs of the past! Still linger round me while life shall last,                        Lonely I wander, sadly I roam, Seeking that far-off home.                                                                     Repeat Chorus                        Come in the twilight, come, come to me, Bringing some message over the sea,                        Cheering my pathway while here I roam, Seeking that far-off home.                                                                      Repeat Chorus    A. S. Kieffer                                                                                                           B. C. Unseld

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