Dr. Jack Hyles on Compasion 1

Her name is Mama. Some folks in the South call her Grandma. Her address is Rest Home, U.S.A. She may bore you with her fellowship, as she has so very little of it. Sometimes she doesn't know exactly how to behave when someone comes to see her. You may have to shout to be heard. And food may be dripping from her mouth as she talks to you, for she does not realize exactly how she looks. She has no offering to give. Her hands may tremble, and you may notice a foul odor in the room.
You see, one day her youngest child stood at the altar. And as the recessional was being played, that daughter and her groom marched out the back. It seemed the whole bottom had fallen out of life. Oh, there was still the old man. She still loved him, and they still shared life together. Until one day, suddenly, he was taken.
She tried to keep her house because she didn't want to give up housekeeping. She was a feisty little rascal, and gritty to the end and full of spunk. But she began to fall a lot, especially in wintertime. Then the children one day got together to try to decide what to do with mother. No one suggested she come and live with them. After all, you can't expect a son to take care of his aged mother just because she entered the jaws of death to give him life. You can't expect him to feed his aged mother and give a bed in his own house to her, just because she gave her life for him and did without and sacrificed and worked and prayed and hoped and dreamed and gave up and did without. You can't expect some son or daughter to be gracious or grateful enough, when mama can't take care of herself, to do what mama did when you couldn't take care of yourself.
If you want to see something that pictures the degradation and depravity of the United States of America, look at these rest homes dotting the horizon around this country. Fundamentalism needs an old-fashioned revival of integrity and character and decency and honor to take care of our own again. So as they decided what to do with mother, she suggested, "I have an idea. There are some real nice rest homes around the country, and there are a lot of older people my age there, and I think I would enjoy being with them." She didn't mean what she said, but she thought that was the easy way out for you. So the children took her there and left her. Her hands never open a letter today. Her ears never hear the ring of a phone. Her cheeks never feel the warmth of a kiss. Her feet never take her outside the home. Her eyes never see her loved ones. She never hears anybody say, "I love you." There she sits this morning.
Oh, by the way, you used to know her well because when you first started preaching you relished the opportunity of going to speak to her. But now you have carpets and buildings and chandeliers and padded pews. Now you have a big drive-in crowd of people, and you have sort of forgotten that that little gal prayed for you with power back yonder when you were a kid.