 Family Theater presents Anne Blythe and MacDonald Kerry. From Hollywood, the mutual network in cooperation with Family Theater presents transcribed, Mother of All, a special Mother's Day program starring Anne Blythe and MacDonald Kerry. This is the story of a mother, a mother like your own. She was gentle, tender, forgiving, a woman who put the interest of her family above all other worldly consideration. And yet, because of something that happened to her only son, this woman suffered the greatest sorrow that a mother can know. Our story begins long, long ago in a small, conquered country on the shores of the Mediterranean. It was the season of the winter rains. They blew down from the mountains in great icy sheets and clogged the narrow roads leading south to the capital. It was a poor time for traveling, but this was a conquered country. And an order had gone out from the conquerors that attacks. Another tax was to be levied against each household in its city of family origin. So the conquered people took to the muddy roads, some alone, some in caravans, all who were required to make the journey, even if among them there happened to be an expectant mother. How do you feel? A little tired, I'm afraid. We can stop and rest if you like. We can't be far now. Perhaps we shouldn't. I have a feeling it will be soon. Don't be afraid. I'll find us a place. As soon as we reach town, I'll find one. I know you will. I'm not afraid. Isn't much, I know, but at least it's dry and out of the wind. Oh, it's just fine. You mustn't worry. Tomorrow before the registration begins, I'll go back into town and find a better place. You needn't do that. It seems so wrong for you to be here, especially now. You mustn't blame yourself for that. If he is to be born here, it is God's will. But not like this. That's so much as a place to lay his head. Oh, we will find something. Isn't that a feeding trough there by the entrance? Part of one. The slats are broken. I suppose I could patch it up to serve temporarily. Of course you can. And the straw. That could be a pillow for him. All right, Joseph. Yes, of course. These rickety things all warp to pieces. Will you be able to fix it? Yes, but you'd think the carpenter who built this would know you can't use green wood to make a manger. And thus he was born for only begotten son. Born into a world of tension and sorrow. A world that had turned its back on love and peace and kindness. Every mother upon first seeing her newborn son envisions him for a moment, grown to manhood. She looks into his round, tiny eyes and sees his whole future. The triumphs, the failures, the joy, the heartbreak. For an instant it is all there. But on that night long ago could the young mother in the stable for all her pride and happiness feel a sword pierce her heart as she gazed at her infant son. As he gurgled with delight and nestled in her arms his eyes shining with love for her could she see his face as she would see it years later twisted in agony and sorrow. Every feature disturbed by pain. All but the eyes which would never cease to shine with love even at the last hour when the earth grew dark and the angry mob jeered him. Why don't they kill him and get it over with? He can't last much longer. He's been hanging there for three hours. Look how dark it's getting. Yes. Ten minutes ago there wasn't a sign of rain. I don't think this means rain. What do you mean? Say, you aren't beginning to believe all those stories about him. I don't know what to believe. Woman, be sensible. He's a blasphemer. Everything he's done is blasphemy. Is it? He healed a sick. He fed the poor. He told people to love each other. That's not the point. He claims to be God. I think he just said something to that young man, the one with his mother. What's she doing here? Most mothers couldn't stand it. She just keeps looking at him. I don't know. I tell you there's something wrong with this. He could have run away, but he didn't. He could have gotten off with just a flogging, but he didn't. Oh, he's a fanatic. Look at his face. Is that the face of a fanatic? He looks almost content to hang there as if... as if it were the only reason he'd been born. Look, he's lifting his eyes to the heavens, and his lips are moving. No. He's lowering his head. It's... it's all over. I've never seen the sky so dark. Look at the faces of the mob. Look at them. They're frightened. Every one of them frightened but her. All but her. Who? Who do you mean? His mother. Can you see her? She's stopped crying. He's dead, and she's finally stopped crying. That's strange. It's usually after death that the crying starts. Maybe that's the reason his mother stopped crying after he died. What do you mean? Maybe she knows that from now on, he'll live forever. Until the last, the mother had stayed with her son. All through the happy years of his childhood, during which he grew strong and full of wisdom, the grace of God within him. And later in manhood, when he went forth to be about his father's business in spirit, if not always at his side, his devoted mother was with him. And now, at the third hour, as they take him down from the cross and lay him in her arms, she looks again, as years before she had, at his closed eyes and sees this time neither suffering nor sorrow, only his eternal glory in heaven and pain stabs her heart no longer for she remembers his words from the cross. Mother, behold thy son. Son, behold thy mother. Her son had left her. Whereas before she had been his mother, she is now mother to all his followers for all generations to come. She is our mother Mary. The years went by swiftly after that. Her advice and counsel were sought and freely given. But at length, the time comes when she must join her son in the kingdom he has prepared for her. So at the last, surrounded by the apostles and knowing that her hour of death and triumph is at hand, Mary makes a solemn promise. John. Yes, Mother Mary? Ask Simon Peter and the others to draw closer. I want to tell them something. We are all here, Mary. What is it? He, my beloved son, can refuse me nothing. I have only to ask. Remember then, whatever help is needed, whatever special strength who prays for it in my name will not go unaided. He has promised. We will remember Mary. John. Mother Mary. John. My time has come. I will find him whom my soul loveth. I will hold him. And I will not let him go. In the words of the angel Gabriel, all the world salutes the mother of all. The mother who could not be separated from the son had at last risen to heaven to the throne of glory that he had prepared for her. But what of Mary's promise? For she is our mother as well. Has our mother been true to her word? Has she forgotten her children here on earth? In December 1531, a persistent Indian convert, Juan Juan Diego, returns to the palace of the Bishop of Mexico and repeats a fantastic story to his excellency. But excellency is true. I swear it. You were on your way to church. And the hill that is called the Payak, it was just a dawn. And it was then the lady first appeared to you? No, no, no, no. Beautiful music, excellency. Beautiful music. And then I heard her voice. Juan Diego, she called. Juan Diego. It was then I turned and I saw it, just like I told you yesterday. The lady appeared again today and said she wanted a temple built on Tampaya and that I should tell you. And this lady repeated that she was the mother of God? Those were her words. And then I told her that you did not believe me some proof, some sign. And she gave you proof? But she did, excellency. She said I should go to the top of the Payak and gather the roses growing there. Roses? Growing in December? But they were there, excellency. And when I picked them and returned to the lady, she arranged them neatly in my Dilma, this sack here. Look for yourself. In heaven's name. Are they not beautiful? Juan, what is that picture painted on the inside of your Dilma? Picture? But I have no... It is an image of the lady herself, exactly as I saw her. As our mother remembered her promise to us, her children. It is July 18th, 1830. In a Paris convent, during a time of convulsive political unrest that rocks all Europe, a young novice, Catherine Laboure, kneels in prayer. And to her, the merciful mother of God appears. My child, it is through you that I will bestow graces on those who will have them. Strife will soon occur. The world will be drenched with sorrow. But I will be with you. Have courage. These graces will be given to all who ask. But people must pray. Has our mother forgotten us? Even though the world did not heed her words, and revolution and bloodshed followed after, did our mother forsake her promise? February 11th, 1858. The rosary draped over her wrists. Our blessed mother first appears to the peasant girl, Bernadette Subiru of Lourdes. And 18 times thereafter, she reappears on the spot where a miraculous hidden spring now gushes forth, healing waters by the grotto. And what is our mother's message to Bernadette? Pray. Pray for sinners. Oh, our mother has not forgotten us. It is we who have forgotten her. Despite her warnings, the world plunges farther and farther along the road to self-destruction. In August 1914, world war breaks out. Less than three years later, Russia, torn by bloody revolution, sees its government fall into the hands of the Bolsheviks. But does our mother forsake us? It is May 13th, 1917. Fatima, Portugal. And once more, this time to three innocent children, the Blessed Virgin manifests herself. I have come to warn the faithful to amend their lives and to ask pardon for their sins. They must not offend our Lord anymore. He is already too grievously offended. They must say the rosary daily. This war will end. But another, a worse one, will begin if people do not stop offending. To prevent this, I ask the consecration of the world to my immaculate heart. If my requests are heard, Russia will be converted and there will be peace. If not, great error will spread throughout the world, giving rise to war and persecution. That was her warning to us, her children. And as she had before at Lourdes and Guadalupe, at Fatima, she gave us an unmistakable sign. Here, take this just as I give it to you. Dateline, Fatima, Portugal, October 13th, 1917. Today, over 60,000 people witnessed a solar phenomenon here that no law of natural science seems able to explain. At high noon, the sun grew suddenly dim and appeared to spin like a gigantic wheel. This occurred three times within a period of 10 minutes. An ecclesiastical commission has been appointed to investigate this phenomenon and will report its findings as soon as possible. Okay, you can send that. Oh, and listen, I want to add a personal note to the editor in the London office. Just say, Henry, I saw this with my own eyes. It's the goods. Thus, the message is from our mother in fulfillment of her promise. The solar phenomenon at Fatima was later confirmed by outstanding physicists and astronomers as an occurrence utterly unexplainable by ordinary laws of nature. The miracles at Lourdes, the sources of medically certified cures that have taken place there over the years and which are still occurring show that for all our weaknesses, our mother has not forgotten us. Let us then, her children, rededicate ourselves to the principles for which her divine son suffered and died. We live in a war-torn world that needs more than ever before to be brought back through atonement, through prayer, to the Prince of Peace. Remember whatever help is needed, whatever special stream who prays for it in my name will not go unaided. He has promised. But Family Theatre has presented a special Mother's Day program, Mother of All, starring Anne Blythe and MacDonald Kerry. Others in our cast were Mae Clark, John Stevenson, Howard Culver, Jane Ovella, Pat McGeehan, Norman Field and David Young. Ms. Blythe was our soloist. The song Mother of All was composed by Jean Lockhart and Miracle of Fatima was composed by Michael Grace and Helmi Cressa. The script was written by John T. Kelly with music composed and conducted by Harry Zimmerman and was directed and transcribed for Family Theatre by Joseph F. Mansfield. This is Larry Chatterton expressing the wish of Family Theatre that the blessing of God may be upon you and your home. And inviting you to be with us again next week when Family Theatre will present To the Victor, starring James Cagney Mr. Thomas O'Neill will be your host. Join us, won't you?