Northern lights, the hatching of a luna moth, bits of nature, spring flowers perfectly encased in ice after a storm and glistening, astronauts and presidents — she made sure we understood that any day that included them was noteworthy.

Buffy and I are still likely to pull to the side of the road if we are driving and a cloud looks exactly like an elephant, or a flock of robins (!) is perched on a diner roof in northern Arizona. No explanation is ever needed, and we both just understand without speaking that we are continuing Mom’s quest to appreciate it all while it’s there and we have been lucky enough to stumble upon it — whatever “it” happens to be.

When the wolves came to nap out of the heat under the scrub oak trees where I was staying in Prescott, I sat at a safe distance the entire time they were there, and I just watched. And watched some more. I saw them breathe, and the little bits of fluff that always seem to be in the air in the summertime in the mountains drift by their pointed ears. And I thought of my mother, who would be saying, “Look closely, girls. Make sure you remember this.”

We assumed that the picnic must be scheduled for later in the day because there was nobody there.

Seated at our table just outside the ramada, we began eating our lunch, only to have the cold mist turn into a decidedly colder steady rain. My younger son, who was perhaps two years old, started to cry. I scooped him up, and led the other two children who weren’t much older to a table just inside the ramada, all the way in the back far from any potential action that might occur, but that was under the roof and out of the rain. I said to our three little kids, “You finish your sandwiches here where it’s dry.”

They began to eat again, and David and I sat with them to try to cheer them up about their cold and rainy picnic. All of a sudden, a woman bustled over. She said, “You will have to leave. Right now.”

I said, “We’re almost finished. What is the problem?”

She responded, “We have reserved the ramada today for a church picnic and you’re trespassing.”

I looked around and said, “We’re the only ones here. And the sign says, ‘All Are Welcome.’ ”

However, she was not deterred. And she repeated again, more insistently (although there was nobody there to hear her but us), “You will have to leave. We have the ramada reserved for today.”

My children watched her strut way, and my daughter asked, “Are we the wrong people, Mom?”

I replied, “Absolutely not.” But my throat was tight.

So, we gathered up the carrot sticks and the half-eaten peanut butter sandwiches — and our three babies — and set out to walk back to the parking lot and retrieve our car. When I heard somebody running behind me to catch up, I turned to face a man who said, “Please come back. I’m the pastor, and you are welcome to sit at the table and let your children eat.”

I replied, “I thank you for your concern, but we wouldn’t be any more welcome now than we were a few moments ago. And I would rather sit in the car with my kids where they can have a little dignity with their peanut butter.”

He nodded his head, and said, “I understand. The church ladies often forget that people are what’s important, and not the rules that frequently don’t matter anyway.”

I said to him, “Please do me one favor. Take down the sign that says ‘All Are Welcome.’ It’s misleading. And if another family tries to keep their kids from getting wet, let them have the table you were going to let us use after all. I think you’ll find there’s still plenty of room.”

I shook his hand, and got into the car. He stood and watched us pull away, and my three little kids waved to him as we left. David and I found a quiet spot on a little road in another section of the park, and the kids ate their sandwiches in the car under a big tree. The rain continued to fall, so we decided to go to the library.

As we left the park, we drove past the ramada. There were exactly three tables occupied out of the 50 or so that had been reserved. The one in the back where we had been sitting was still empty.

A couple of months after he moved in — and in the middle of a snowstorm and a cold snap as only Indiana has them in January — he went into his white shower stall, leaned against the wall to wash the bottom of his foot — and promptly rolled with the entire shower unit into the lawn beside his apartment. Fortunately, he lived on the first floor.

In those pre-911 days, his terrified girlfriend called the fire department — along with several neighbors who reported seeing a nude man emerge from under a shower stall lodged in the snow. He wasn’t seriously hurt, but his adventure (and his name) was repeated on the news for a couple of days.

The apartment manager quickly moved the young man into another unit.  It was soon determined that what had happened was a slow leak behind the shower had gradually weakened the exterior wall, and the uneven weight posed by the man leaning against the shower wall to wash his foot had caused the somewhat heavy shower stall to tip over and burst through the wall.

My friend’s main concern throughout the entire episode focused on one single aspect of his flash of media fame: Everybody now knew that he was living with his girlfriend before their wedding.  And everybody knew that she had seen him naked.

He was standing in the shadow of a dusty oleander bush, and he was perhaps as old as 17. He was almost transparent with the heat, and his face was pinched and pale, the circles under his eyes almost as blue as they were. He had a small backpack, and a sign that I couldn’t have read if I’d tried to. I looked him in the eyes, and he looked back at me. I glanced at the light, saw that there was a brief window of time, and dug into my purse for the bill that I had I managed to escape with from the grocery store. I rolled down my window, and he stepped over to where I was. I simply handed him the money, pointed towards the store, and then the light turned green. He said, “Thank you,” and I went home to my worries, my utility bill, and the remnants of my middle age.

He was still a child, and he was completely alone and in very rough shape. I had given him what cash I had on me, and it was just enough for a few survival supplies. I could only hope that he didn’t end up being hurt by worse than the heat and hunger.

Today, I will go back past the place where he stood. I made up a list of places where he can call for help. But if he is still there, I will probably give him enough money to go back to the store for more food and water. If that makes me a fool or a bleeding heart, then so be it.

I sat with a mother whose child left this earth as soon as he was born, and her grief was no less deep than the grief of the mother who was almost 90 and lost a son in his 60s, who was himself a grandfather. There was no difference in what each of them felt.  Many people believe that talking about a mother’s child who has died brings her more pain. The truth is that when you silence the name of the child or keep a memory to yourself, you deny a mother genuine comfort. Her heart is already filled with a thousand thoughts, and knowing that you are also remembering her son or daughter is very important. 

Every life has value and is treasured by God. Luke says, “Are not five sparrows sold for two pennies? Yet not one of them is forgotten by God. Indeed, the very hairs of your head are all numbered. Don’t be afraid; you are worth more than many sparrows.”

What this passage tells us is that if even the smallest, most undistinguished little brown bird is known to God, then each of us matters. Even the most brief existence, fragile person, or troubled soul is precious to Him.

Perhaps we can best understand the unconditional love of God if we look at how a mother loves her child. Genuine maternal devotion comes from somewhere other than rational thought. We are aware that our children aren’t perfect, but we don’t judge them by their last mistakes, or their current weaknesses. We forgive them over and over again, whether or not they ever ask for our pardon, and we claim them always. They are our children, always. We love them, always.

We are not blind to their faults, but they are so much more to us than their imperfections. We hurt when they fall, we rejoice when they rise up again, and if they pass from this world out of the reach of our arms and into the hands of a loving God — we try to accept what cannot possibly be understood.

One mother asked me to find something from the bible or in scriptures that would help honor her daughter, who had died. I did not find anything that seemed more suited for her than the Prayer of St. Francis of Assisi, who is known to have revered life, and the good and gentle things of the world.

Prayer of Saint Francis of Assisi

Lord, make me an instrument of your peace.
Where there is hatred, let me sow love;
where there is injury, pardon;
where there is doubt, faith;
where there is despair, hope;
where there is darkness, light;
and where there is sadness, joy.

Ecclesiastes also tells us:

To everything there is a season, 

And a time to every purpose under heaven:

A time to be born and a time to die; 

A time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted;

A time to weep, and a time to laugh; 

A time to mourn and a time to dance; 

A time to get, and a time to lose; 

A time to keep, and a time to cast away;

A time to rend and a time to sew; 

A time to keep silence, and a time to speak;

A time to love, and a time to hate; 

A time of war, and a time of peace.

May God lift up all mothers who love their children, no matter how any of them come into this world, or leave it. Underneath our flesh of many colors, we share a single heartbeat.

Next year, I will bear down on the blade of days gone by, and I will bring everything out again. I won’t hide from the things I hold dear for more than one December. But this season — this bittersweet “most wonderful time of the year” — I just need a break from the things that broke my heart.

I was sad for several reasons. One, the box was old, beautiful, and very useful. Two, somebody I used to love gave it to me. And three, I liked it. A lot. Then I started thinking about my mother, and how she would have reacted to breaking the ornate lid of an antique china box.

She would have sighed, then said, “Oh well, at least I didn’t break the useful part that holds stuff. And I’m not trying to hide anything anyway, so the lid doesn’t matter.”

But to me, it was all about that lid. The swirls and flowers, and all the gold edging. The fact that it fit perfectly onto a piece that kept my earrings off the floor was just a bonus.

For me, the good part is gone, even if the useful part (which is still being used) is intact and unscathed.

My mother’s ability to retrieve what was left from any tragedy and make do is what made her magnificent. My love for lids and covers is hard to explain, but I have always been fond of keeping things out of view. I am not fond of locks, but I love slight barriers.

In the meantime, the useful part of the china box retains its position on my dresser, where is has remained for many years. It’s form has been changed forever, even if its function has not.

In the summer when I visited her in Greencastle, Indiana I was charged with the solemn duty of bringing the eggs from the local creamery. She carefully counted out the right amount of money and put it in an envelope in the bottom of the large basket that I would use for the precious cargo. I walked the short distance to the little block building that served as the distribution point to egg customers, and that processed for all the egg farmers in the area.

The creamery ladies were always ready for me. They selected three dozen or so eggs that they thought were perfect, and set them with great care in the big basket, counting them out for me. One, two, three, four… I handed them the envelope without looking at the amount, and they never looked at the contents, either.

Then, I walked as carefully as I could. Nitroglycerin has been transported with fewer nerves than I felt carrying Grade AA eggs home to my grandmother.

When I walked across the porch with the basket, she was waiting for me, her apron already tied on. She followed me to the kitchen table, and I set down the basket. She looked inside, and said, “These look pretty good.”

Out of my grandmother, that was high praise. I was lightheaded with relief.

She disappeared into the kitchen with a remark something like, “I hope this high humidity doesn’t affect the cake.”

I knew that good or bad, the cake’s fate was out of my hands. But I wasn’t really worried. I had never seen my grandmother fail to produce an angel food cake worthy of the name. Regardless, egg noodles wouldn’t be far behind.

My sister, Buffy, had an apartment in the old Victorian house that had once been the funeral home. I was staying with her, and we were enjoying having a visit, wedding or not. Late one evening, her upstairs neighbors rapped on front door, and motioned for us to follow. We slipped outside, went across the yard, and trailed behind them to the storm sewer that opened up on the street. There lined up in the opening were a half a dozen little faces, each belonging to a baby raccoon. They were not alarmed by our appearance, as they could have slipped easily back into the safety of the storm sewer. As it was, we got a great look at them, and at their parents who emerged to stroll back and forth. My sister got her camera, and everybody cooperated by letting us take their pictures.

 A few weeks later when I remembered to develop the film that we had shot at the wedding, the photos we had taken at the wedding were memorable. But the first half of the first roll was filled with baby raccoons, and my sister’s long ago neighbors.

So, happy anniversary, David. Nobody would ever understand why baby raccoons remind me of our wedding.

But, there is no question that I love them. Especially the ones in my backyard. This morning, I hauled a watering can to a lantana that I am trying to talk into surviving. As I trickled water from the can onto the bush, a hummingbird came down to try to drink. I told him that the stream was too strong for him, but he ignored me and tried anyway. I told him I would put a fresh batch of sugar swill into his little feeder. He sat on the lantana, a mere foot or so away from me, and waited for me to finish watering while he chirped that little tiny rusty hinge sound that hummingbirds make. Then he sat on the shepherd’s hook that holds his feeder, and waited for me to go to the house, refill the feeder, and return.

It was an encounter that my mother would have treasured, and probably made several phone calls about, one of them to me. I wish I could phone her today and say, “Guess what happened to me this morning?”

Happy Mother’s Day, Mom.  And thanks for the hummingbird. I am sure you pointed him my direction.