The second Sunday in May. Every year we celebrate the greatest day of the year to honor the greatest miracle of life, motherhood. I have never been able to describe the wonders of my mom. I know that I should simply give up trying and enjoy the stunning blessings wrapped in simplicity during the 55 years of our lives together and even the years since her death in which I still live under her powerful influence.

I was also blessed with her gifts passed on to me through my dad, sister and brother. How strange to think that I could have passed through these years with no demands to acknowledge such treasure, or even attempt some method of reimbursement.

Maybe even that was because she always laughed at such thought and would proclaim that the celebration of Mothers’ Day was the invention of those who sold flowers and candy with no warming heartbeat. So here I am again overflowing with thoughts and deep feelings generated and nourished by my mom through the tears she shed through my infancy, youth and manhood ... all part of the cost of her overwhelming love.

Of course I have no words of description. I know that “Mother” is a sacred word with the power to make us rejoice and to cry without even knowing why, and though I have the greatest respect for the use of the word, I have always embraced the shorter form of “Mom” never feeling a loss for my feeble attempts to express the never-ending love that has enriched me.

With no attempt to express the seriousness of parenthood and being entrusted to bring us up and prepare us for everlasting life, praying for the grace to fulfill this sacred duty with competency and love. She knew when to give and when to withhold, when to reprove, to praise and when to be silent; to be gentle and considerate, yet firm and watchful; to be free from the weakness of indulgence and the excess of severity.

She had the courage to be disliked by her children when necessary things had to be done that were displeasing to us. She had the imagination to enter our world to understand and guide us
My dad and his brother lost their father at the age of 18 months and three weeks, and then were raised by their mother to become good men and professional baseball players, fierce competitors, yet kind, gentle and compassionate men. He told me two stories that have helped me to understand the power and beauty of moms.

After leaving home and living far from home he told me that my mom longed to hear from me more often. I told him that I wrote very often. He told me that when he was on the road playing ball that he wrote to his mother every day. I told him that even William Shakespeare could not write to anyone everyday. He simply told me that, “your mother does not want to hear from Shakespeare, She wants to hear from YOU!”

When after 11 years of marriage, our daughter was born. I was constantly being told that the result was to be one spoiled baby. I expressed my concern of having a spoiled child and my dad simply stated to me, “This world would be a much better place if more babies were spoiled with Mother’s love. Stay out of her mother’s way, as she loves her child.”

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