All Earth Is Crammed With Heaven: Daily Reflections
for Mothers
“All Earth Is Crammed With Heaven is a perfect title for this encouraging book for mothers. Mary van Balen-Holt illustrates, chapter by chapter, just how loving our God is. She lifts her voice to God and prays, ‘You are Presence.’ From lunch boxes to family photographs, from the Hopewell Indian Mound to piano lessons, from shell gathering to sweeping the floor, Mary reminds us of the presence of God in our everyday lives. Mothers of all ages will be uplifted by the stories, examples, and epitaphs in each chapter of this encouraging, joyous book.”MARIE CHAPIAN: Author of Mothers, Daughters and His Thoughts Toward Me
Shortly after this book was published, I was interviewed on a radio show. The interviewer was a man, and when he introduced this book and me to his audience, he laughed and thought aloud that some people might wonder why a man is interviewing a woman author of a book of reflections for women. His answer was simple and true: All Earth Is Crammed With Heaven is not only a mother’s book. It is a book for all of us who have been part of a family: and that is everyone.
EXCERPT: from section Modern Sacramentals
The Boat
In weather for example, this translated into what is only half-jokingly known as the Butterfly Effect--the notion that a butterfly stirring the air today in Peking can transform storm systems next month in New York.
JAMES GLEICK
Our neighbor, Paul, was dying of cancer. Not sick enough to stay in bed, he spent much time resting or sitting at the kitchen table. We missed seeing him working in his garage where it seemed like he was always building or fixing something for someone. After the children boarded the morning school bus, I went over and shared a cup of tea and conversation with him.
I don’t remember what we began talking about on that particular morning, but somehow we ended up swapping stories of little gifts we had given or received over our lifetimes. A smile spread across his face. He looked at me with eyes that had just been back to his mother’s kitchen as he remembered it, fifty years ago.
“Once I carved my mother a little boat out of a stick of cedar,” he began. “I was always whittling. Can’t remember if I gave it to her for her birthday or Christmas. But she loved it.”
He paused, remembering its shape and line. Looking at his hands, I could imagine them young, holding a knife and fashioning a boat. Since I had known him, he’d made a beautiful set of cherry cabinets and a small hutch for their kitchen. It had glass doors and displayed his wife’s good dishes. Paul was always making something.
“It was a nice little boat,” he continued. “Mom kept it for years. she showed it to people when they came to visit. She had it until one of the grandchildren took it to school for show-and-tell and lost it.”
He shook his head.
“She hated that.”
Sitting in silence, we sipped our tea. I looked at him. Once round and rosy, his face was thin. His skin was yellow. Liver cancer. When he looked up, he smiled. For a moment his eyes sparkled like they had before the cancer started taking its toll.
“It was such a little boat, but she kept if for all those years.”
Small gifts, small acts of kindness send ripples out that touch hearts and change lives more than we can imagine. I have no idea what that small boat meant to Paul’s mother. What thoughts it brought to mind. What smiles to her face.
That his mother had treasured his boat, proudly displaying it for so many years and grieving at its loss, touched her son’s heart deeply. She could not have known that such simple appreciation would bring comfort and joy to him fifty years later as he sat at a kitchen table, battling cancer and sharing tea with a neighbor.
Lord, thank you for small gifts and great love with which they are given and received.
EXCERPT: from the section Family
“Hi, I’m Home”
“I’m tired of coming home to notes instead of people.”
KATHRYN HOLT
“I’m home!” The door slammed behind me. I looked at the kitchen clock before walking into the dining room. It was already six. The house was quiet.
“I’m home,” I repeated.
“Hi Mom,” said a voice behind a bedroom door.
“I’m up here,” said another from the room across the hall.
Two out of three. I was mentally checking them off: children safely home before their mom. I glanced around. The chores outlined for them on my morning note had been done. Footsteps on the stairs announced that the third and youngest, Kathryn, was home, too.
I sank into the living room rocker, waiting for the wonderful warm moments when she would crawl up into my lap and tell me about her day.
She didn’t. She stood in front of me, looking straight into my heart with her sad green eyes.
“I’m tired of coming home to notes instead of people,” she declared. “How long does this thing at work last?”
I pulled her onto my lap and pressed her close to me. Burying my nose in her sweet hair, I sighed and kissed her.
“I’m sorry, Hon. Every day I think I will get home early, and every day I have so much to do I end up working late.”
“I hate notes. ‘Cookies on the counter. K, don’t forget to practice piano. J, please put the trash can back into the garage...”
Her voice trailed off. My stomach felt sick. This wasn’t how I had imagined life with a part time job. The over stuffed rocker moved slowly back and forth as we sought solace in the ancient rhythm. Each lost in our own thoughts, we sat together. Through the window we watched the evening come. We were two thieves, stealing moments from a lifestyle that had none to spare.
Not many years ago, I spent my days at home, cooking and doing laundry. Or so it seemed, anyway. People told me they were the best days, and to enjoy them. I did, most of the time. But sometimes when I was tying to take a moment to myself by hiding out in the bathroom, I imagined what it would be like to work somewhere else. On those days, almost any job outside the house sounded good. After all, I had a college degree and had worked before we were married and had children.
Lord, now I stand in line at the grocery store holding a frozen pizza in my hand, and wondering why I am working somewhere besides home. I look at the other working mothers in line. Some look smart in their business attire. Some just look worn out. How can we do it, Lord? I imagine they are all doing better than I. Maybe I will learn how to juggle family and job. I am not sure I want to. In the meantime, help my family understand. I love them. I am doing my best.