Yesterday, Mother's Day, is a good day.  Whether we have good or bad memories of our mothers, we must admit that without our mothers, we would not be here.  However old we are, we must acknowledge that we could not have lived even a day without our mother.
     But a mother is more than a source of physical life.  A mother is the heart of love. When a number of years ago I spoke at my mother's memorial service, I stated that although I, regrettably, had engaged in behaviors as a teenager that saddened and burdened my mother deeply, my mother never stopped loving me.  Regardless of how much I hurt her, regardless of how much emotional scarring I caused her, my mother never ceased to care about me, her first born son.  Her love for me was wholly unconditional; I never for once doubted that she loved me.
     Similarly, when I consider everything my mother did for me in the course of my lifetime, all the times she helped me, all the times she supported me, all the times she made clear she was always on my side, I'm amazed.  From a middle of the night response to stomach flu to shepherding my very unruly Cub Scout den to comforting me when a good friend turned on me to fixing wonderful meals when I came home from college, and much, much more, my mother was a steadfast presence in my life, never doubting, never complaining, always ready to be my mother.
     In July, my mother, who would have been 94 had she lived to this Mother's Day, will have been gone six years, but I still remember her vividly.  As I type this blog, I look frequently at her photograph on a nearby shelf, her face shining, radiant with love and joy.  Hard to believe she is gone, yet equally hard to believe she was ever mine, so wonderfully did she love me, a person so undeserving of such attention and acclaim.
     Thanks, God, for mothers.
     Love you, Mom.