Everyone has a mom, but not like mine. Mom took the sting out of the iodine before she cleaned our skinned knees. Mom had plenty of practice, my siblings and I had fourteen knees to skin and iodine.

Everyone has a mom, but not like mine. Mom spread peanut butter on one slice of bread and jelly on the other because I liked it that way; she didn’t mix it all together like other moms did. My siblings and I gave mom plenty of practice spreading peanut butter and jelly.

Everyone has a mom, but not like mine. Mom let me sit on the fire escape outside the kitchen window that overlooked the backyard. I could see the whole world from there. She fed me grapes; I loved to pluck them off the stems and pop them into my mouth. I still do. I wrote her a poem once. It had a rhyme about eating grapes on fire escapes. I thought it was fine. Mom told me it was better than Shakespeare. She was good about that, telling you that you wrote better that Shakespeare. She also taught us that we sang better than Caruso, painted better than Van Gough, and out smarted Einstein. My siblings and I gave mom plenty of opportunities to tell us how good we were. Imagine the countless grammar school art works, school plays, and chorus programs she had to fawn over.

Everyone has a mom, but not like mine. Mom gave gentle life lessons. “Son,” I still hear her ask, “Why do you always swim upstream? Learn to go with the flow.” After I replied something about being a salmon, she gently asked, “Did you know salmon spend most of their lives at sea?” Mom had plenty of opportunities to guide us down stream.

Everyone has a mom, but not like mine. My mom makes Friday the 13^th lucky. I came home from school one day complaining about how terrible Friday was going to be because it was Friday the 13^th. Mom told me that she heard that once too, when she was a little girl, but that she thought it was silly. “Why make a day unlucky?” she asked. “You make your own days, son. They can be lucky or unlucky…it’s your choice.” I’ve enjoyed only lucky Fridays since then.

Everyone has a mom, but not like mine. Mom helped when I asked her how someone you Love more than anyone else in the world could suddenly, swiftly, and silently deliver you from great soaring heights to dark, deep despairs. Mom said, “Because she’s inside of you. When someone’s inside of you, it’s not just about you anymore.” Mom had countless opportunities to counsel the lovelorn.

Everyone has a mom, but not like mine. Mom had a way to make you face the mirror. We learned to take a good, hard look at ourselves before casting blame elsewhere. There was a time dad and I just couldn’t, or wouldn’t, see things the same way. I fussed because I felt I suddenly couldn’t understand him or what he wanted. Dad had suddenly became so different than me, I complained. “Do you really want to know what’s going on?” mom asked. Of course I did. “Your dad is just the mirror, son. You’re angry at yourself. You see yourself in your dad, things you don’t like seeing, and you blame dad. You think you’re different, but you two are more alike than either of you can see.” Since then I’ve found many more truths in the mirrors of life.

Everyone has a mom, but not like mine. Mom instilled songs in our hearts; she sang of blue skies, of accentuating the positive, and of the little use in crying because life was worthwhile when we smiled.

Mom celebrates 84 orbits around the sun today. We celebrate mom’s selflessness and insatiable capacity to give. We celebrate her warmth, her smile, and her capacity to heal. Merely sitting silently in mom’s presence is a deep mediation in peace. We celebrate her tenacity, for she never gives up.

Everyone has a mom, but not like mine. Thank you, mom for bringing us life, like all mom’s do. But thank you for not stopping there. Thank you for teaching us about the streams and mirrors of life. And thank you most of all for teaching us about faith, hope, and Love, and that the greatest of these, your greatest treasure, your greatest gift, is Love.

Everyone has a mom, but not like you.